


Love Didn't Die (Because It Was Never Alive In The First Place)

by nelehgrimm



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, LND rewrite, brief fancy turned too serious, not LND, trying to reimagine what cannot be fixed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nelehgrimm/pseuds/nelehgrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reimagining Love Never Dies. What happens when Christine is called to America but her husband is no abusive drunk? Meg Giry is not a vengeful prostitute? Madame Giry not a power-hungry, manipulative vixen?<br/>What if the Phantom isn't as successful and Christine actually gets to sing for the impresario that hired her? What if her choice in the opera's fifth cellar wasn't the only empowering decision she got to make in her life?<br/>What if her children go missing anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to re-tell LND in a way that makes better sense to me.  
> In short: Christine and Raoul are happily married with happy children. Circumstances bring them to America where they meet the Phantom. Shit goes down and Christine finally gets to do what we all wanted her to do: Stand up for herself and speak her mind!  
> No abusive Raoul, no prostituting Meg, no push-over Christine.  
> No distorted characterisations and plot-twists that completely throw everything I thought I knew about the characters I love over board. No destruction of the character's developmental arch for the sake of having a ship work. No unnecessary deaths. Just everybody getting what they actually deserve.  
> *  
> The first chapter(s) still take place between the events of PotO and LND.

Hot tears were burning in Christine's eyes. She sat in the gondola and was shaking from head to toe, trying her hardest not to break out into sobs. Raoul stood in front of her, pushing them along with a long pole, his eyes stoically fixed ahead. Only occasionally his gaze would flit down to her, reassuring him that she was still there, that she was still with him. That she was safe.

Christine pressed her hands against her mouth to stifle a sob that hitched in her throat. Trembling lips touching the space that – only moments ago – had been occupied by a heavy ring, so cold against her fingers. She thought she could still hear the maniac laughter, the screams of pain and fury echo through the canal walls, following her. They would always follow her. She wanted to hold her ears and close her eyes, slowly sink away and forget. Instead she looked at Raoul, standing at the end of the boat, calm and collected. She thanked him for his unwavering strength, for being the pillar in her storm.

Despite being the one that – in a way – had saved his life and that of the Persian, she didn't feel strong. Without him she would have never made it out of this hell – that she was quite certain of. Watching him now calmly navigate the waters kept her focused, kept her from dissolving in the sea of her emotions.

When they docked he reached out his hand and held her in his strong grip. He didn't let go. Not when her feet touched solid ground nor when they searched their way out of the cellars. His hand was always around hers, warm and reassuring.

Only when they had fled the opera, when they stood out on the open plaza, did he dare lose his composure. He pulled her towards him and buried his face in her hair, gripping her tightly as if he were afraid that they would both fall apart if he loosened his hold.

That was when she heard his sobs. She felt them shudder through his body with each breath. He was crying from relief.

"Thank God you are safe," he whispered, his voice roughened by emotion.

She pressed her face to his chest and joined him, finally letting go. Her hands dug into him, desperately clinging to his shirt for a secure hold. Together they cried for the fear they had endured – both for their own and the other's life – for the horrors they had forced to be a part of, for the utter relief that they had managed to escape.

Finally the tension fell from their bodies, washed away, and left them weak and trembling.

When Raoul pulled away his eyes were red and puffy, his hair tousled, and his shirt dirty and torn. Yet when he looked at her his gaze held such love, such warmth and devotion, that Christine felt able to cease her own crying and simply know that he would be there. He would always be there.

The ride home was spent in silence. They held on to each other, not wanting to be parted for even a second for fear that they could lose the other again. Only when they rolled up in front of Christine's apartment were they forced to separate.

"Please come with me, Raoul," Christine begged against his chest. "Don't leave me alone tonight." Raoul brought up a hand to stroke her hair.

"You have to rest," he murmured, almost apologetically. Christine leaned back to look him in the eyes and shook her head.

"I will not be able to close my eyes if you are not with me," she whispered. "I will be too afraid on my own to catch even a moment of sleep." Raoul sighed, holding his hand to her cheek.

"Then I will not leave you, I promise." With this he ordered the coachmen to return to the Chagny mansion without them and let Christine lead him into her rooms. He insisted on sleeping on the sofa and had to swear that he would stay right where he was, only a room away. Reluctantly Christine bid him good night.

Raoul fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning on the narrow space the sofa offered. In the middle of the night he was woken by muffled cries. They were coming from Christine's room. He rose from the sofa and checked the door. When it was unlocked he carefully let himself in.

Christine was curled up in the far corner of her bed, face pressed into her pillow to stifle her sobs, though it did nothing to hide the shaking of her frame. Without another thought Raoul climbed into the bed with her and curled his arms protectively around her.

"Shh, Christine," he murmured softly and began to stroke her back. "Don't cry. I'm here for you. Nothing will happen to you ever again, I promise." Slowly Christine calmed down and snuggled her head into the crook of his neck. Her fingers tightly twisted into the fabric of his shirt, holding him close to her. After a while her breathing evened out and she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep of pure exhaustion.

 

* * *

 

Raoul renewed his proposal three weeks after they had last left the opera behind them. Christine was still plagued by nightmares – waking up in tears, scared and shivering – but under his care they diminished in number and severity.

Of course she said yes – again. There was no one else Christine could even imagine wanting to spend the rest of her life with as much as with him. He pulled himself up and hastily pressed his lips against hers. Frantic. That's how their kisses always were lately. As if they still feared each kiss could be the very last one.

They pulled back, lips swollen and out of breath, broad smiles lighting up their faces. All would be good. They would stay together and all would be good.

 

* * *

 

Their marriage was a personal thing. Not many people attended, but they couldn't care less. When they had each other there was no one else they needed.

When he saw Christine walk towards the altar Raoul's breath caught in his throat. She was radiantly beautiful. A stunning appearance dressed in white.

'If an angel were to look down upon her,' Raoul thought, 'it would fall out of the sky in envy.' His heart beat against his ribcage, almost painfully. Seeing her like this he could scarcely believe his luck. He felt as if he would never again experience a glum day if only she stayed by his side. In this moment she was all he had ever hoped for and all he knew he'd ever want and need.

'I must look like the most foolishly love-struck idiot,' he thought. 'But I don't care. Not as long as she is the reason I look this way.' When she caught his gaze and smiled he swore he could have dropped dead right that instant. If possible his heart beat even wilder and he feared it could jump right out of his chest. He beamed at her and thought he was never going to be able to stop.

He barely listened when the priest spoke his words. All his attention was consumed by his Christine. He noticed her hands were trembling when he slid on her wedding band. He searched her face and found the same giddy, love-struck joy he felt, gleam from her eyes.

Upon the priests word he leaned in to kiss her. Their first wholly calm kiss. There was no more need for fear. They were bound to one another, they had promised to care for each other and never leave, and in this kiss Raoul verified all the vows he had spoken.

He did so again in their wedding bed. Two lovers entangled, all sweet love and clumsy shyness on their first full encounter with the other's body. They gasped their vows into each other's ear, breathed them against their skins, wanting the words to last forever.

They fell asleep wrapped up in each other's arms. Two hearts conjoined. From that night on the nightmares rarely returned.

 

* * *

 

A newspaper article caught her attention. Christine was sitting opposite of Raoul in a corner of the grand living room, contentedly reading a book in the warm silence that engulfed them. She had looked up with a smile when Raoul commented on something in the news article he was reading. Her smile froze when her eyes caught sight of a small section of the page that faced her.

"Raoul, what is that?" She tried to keep her voice calm, though it sounded forced.

"Hm?" Her husband looked up from behind the pages and eyed her with raised brows. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"That article – on the back of your paper." She reached forward and took the pages from his hand. Raoul protested lightly but fell silent once he noticed the rigid expression on his wife's face.

"Christine, is everything alright?" Worry creased the edges of his voice and he bent over with a slight frown on his face. "Christine?" Her gaze shot up to meet his, troubled and distracted.

"It-it's the opera..." She swallowed thickly before scanning the small article again. It didn't even cover a quarter of a page. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly as she read, crumpling the thin paper.

"They found him," she whispered, barely suppressing a tremble in her voice. "Raoul, they – they found him. H-his corpse –" She broke off and looked at him with wild eyes. Raoul felt an uneasy clenching in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard before he dared to speak.

"Are you sure?" He knew it sounded empty but in that moment he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yes I'm sure!" she snapped backed, fueled by agitation. She immediately regretted her sharp tone when she saw Raoul's hurt expression. "I'm sorry," she whispered and dragged a shaking hand through her mass of curls.

"The – the body... it wore his ring." She handed him the paper. The article held a picture of a skeletally thin corpse and a close-up on its right hand, on the ring that sat on his little finger. It was the Phantom's. Unmistakably. While skimming the article he noticed that it even hinted at the man's supposed identity. So it was true, the Phantom was dead.

With a light feeling in his chest Raoul looked back up to see Christine trembling. Her arms curled around her thin frame for protection while she stared ahead unseeingly. Raoul lay the pages aside and sat down by her side. He took her in his arms and held her tightly against his chest.

"He's gone now," he whispered soothingly." There is nothing you have to be afraid of anymore. He can't get you." He felt something wet on his shirt and realized that she had started to cry. Her soft sobs were muffled against his frame. He rocked her gently and stroked her hair. Though he had to admit that he did not exactly know what she was feeling at the moment he was determined to be there for her.

Christine shivered against Raoul's warm body. Her heart twisted painfully as sobs and tears tumbled from her. She was confused. On the one hand she was crying out of her relief that now she was finally truly freed from the Phantom's bonds. On the other hand... her Angel had been her closest musical companion after the death of her father. He had been a genius beyond measure and even though he had hurt her, even though he had been murderous, deceiving and vindictive, she had never wanted him to die. Not like this. Not alone in his ready-made grave. For in the end he had attempted to redeem himself and deserved better.

She was torn between mourning such a waste of talent, feeling sorrow for the loss of what he could have been, and feeling an indescribable relief. He would never be able to haunt her again. She was safe at last. Truly safe. No more murders, no more crimes, no more nightmares. Only her and Raoul and their chance at a new life, free from the ghosts of the past. Wasn't that exactly what she had wished for?

It was. And snuggling against Raoul, feeling his strong arms around her and hearing his soft, reassuring voice, she only felt strengthened in her conviction. Erik was dead. It had happened for a reason – that's what she told herself. To give her and Raoul a chance to breathe.

It were these thoughts and Raoul's presence which finally calmed her. She leaned back and wiped at her wet face.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I just didn't know how – what to..." She shrugged helplessly.

"It's alright," Raoul murmured and gently raised her face with his hand under her chin. "I understand. You were feeling overwhelmed." He smiled reassuringly before pressing his lips against hers in a short kiss.

"Don't worry about it.”

Christine sighed and leaned back against him. She listened to his steady heartbeat and felt him resume his careful petting of her hair. A small smile crept across her lips. She loved Raoul, she truly did. And she was so incredibly thankful that he was hers. That he was here to calm and reassure her. Always.

 

* * *

 

"Christine... are you satisfied?" Christine stood on the balcony, looking out into the garden, when Raoul approached her. She turned in surprise.

"Of course, darling. What makes you think I wouldn't be?" She had heard the doubt that swung in his voice. Raoul drew his hand across the back of his neck and sighed.

"I was just wondering if – that maybe you..." He broke off, looking for a sensible order to bring out his words in. Christine watched him expectantly. Raoul huffed softly.

"I hear you sing sometimes. And when you do, you get this look in your eyes and I wonder if you miss the opera." He looked at her with a smile, though his eyes were full of insecurity. Ever since they had fled from the fifth cellar that night they hadn't shared another word about the opera. Christine had pushed away all thoughts of music – at least she had tried – they reminded her too much of what she had been through. Raoul had respected this and so music had never been mentioned.

But Christine had never managed to keep music from her mind completely. It was too much a part of her being. Music defined her. She needed it like a plant needed water and sunlight. Without music she withered.

And Raoul had noticed. Of course he had.

He had seen the emptiness behind her eyes, noticed how they began to lose that glow he so loved. He heard her soft sighs and caught the wistful glances she would absentmindedly cast the locked closet that kept all her scores. He felt her retreat further into herself as her soul slowly starved. He realized that – contrary to what they had both believed – she didn't need the absence, but the all-encompassing presence of music in her life to heal her. He saw it when her eyes lit up again as soon as she would hum a small tune. Often she wasn't even aware of it herself and as soon as she realized what she was doing she would shy back into an abrupt silence, scared. Then the light in her eyes would flicker out again.

Christine bit her lips and cast a glance at the side. Unconsciously her arms snaked around her waist to hug her middle.

"Don't worry, Raoul," she murmured softly. Her voice sounded small and unconvinced. "I – I don't want to go back..."

"Christine..." Raoul stroked a finger across her cheek. She met his gaze with scared eyes. "You don't have to be scared to admit that you miss it. – I know that you do." She turned away and shook her head.

"I don't." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. A shudder shot down her spine. "I – I can't."

"But Christine, if you love it so –" He wanted to take her back into his arms but she cut him off when she shook her head firmly and stepped further away.

"You don't understand Raoul."

"Then help me understand. Explain it to me." He let his arms fall to his side and watched his wife with a confused expression. Christine bit her lip and stayed silent. Raoul tried again:

"If it's the opera house then I'm sure we can find another place for you to sing. It – it doesn't even have to be the opera." He took a tentative step toward her. His eyes were carefully trained on her face, studying it for any sign of distress. When she still refused to look at him he sighed helplessly.

"I wish I were better at music," he admitted quietly. Now it was his turn to look at the ground. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably when he felt Christine's eyes on him. "If I were better – if I could play... I would play for you and you could sing..."

"Oh Raoul..."

"You need music, Christine, I can see that. No good comes from you denying it. And I wish I could give it to you – but seeing as I can't I want to make sure you can get it yourself..." He raised his gaze to meet hers again. She smiled at him but it was a sad smile.

"I can't go back. There are too many memories that I don't dare touch again." Her voice was full of regret. Raoul noticed how much it pained her to give up on music like this.

"No," he said firmly. Christine cocked her head and frowned questioningly.

"I won't watch you wither." He straightened his back, suddenly determined. "You don't have to perform. Sing at home if you will. But please – sing!" He breathed deeply and looked her straight in the eyes. "I miss hearing your voice." His voice was softer now.

"I miss the way your eyes glow when you sing." He stretched a hand out to caress her cheek.

"I want you to be as happy as you can be. And for that you need music." He smiled briefly when she leaned against his hand. "And if you are scared I will be there, don't you forget that. You never have to be scared alone. – You don't even have to sing alone. If you want we can find an accompanist for you. Or... I can learn to play the piano. Though you would have to excuse my utter lack of talent." His mouth twitched when Christine chuckled. Following an impulse he pulled Christine against his body and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair tickled his nose.

"Thank you."

He almost didn't hear her whispered words, muffled by his chest. He smiled again and squeezed her a little tighter.

*

Christine couldn't tell why she was so reluctant to sing again when her entire being ached to feel the melodies. It was a cold fist gripping her heart. Erik's ghost still held power over her. In ways he still commanded her voice. She was scared that if she sang he would find a way back to her, that he would somehow find a way to take hold of her thoughts again. She knew it was ridiculous, that Erik was dead. And yet she couldn't help her wandering mind.

But Raoul was right. It hurt her to hold back her voice like this. And no matter how hard she tried, she often found herself humming under her breath. No number of times of stopping in silent shock and scolding herself would change that.

As she leaned against Raoul's sturdy frame now and felt his strong arms around her, her worries slowly melted away. Raoul was right. She needed music to get better. She would take back the control over herself and her voice and finally dispel Erik from her mind.

She swallowed and breathed a shaky sigh. With Raoul by her side she could do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was actually quite sweet, wasn't it? Risk-of-getting-diabetes-when-staring-too-long-at-it sweet. Some of it is still stuck in my hair.  
> *  
> I can't say how often I'll update, but it shouldn't be less than once a week. The second chapter is basically written and the rest is meticulously planned out. I already filled half a note book in my frantic mission to purge myself of all the ideas I had - only a quarter of which actually made it into the final cut.  
> I debated not uploading anything until I was done, but then I couldn't wait. At least its all planned and should be running smoothly.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the last part when I was tired.

A broad smile crossed Raoul’s face when he came home to Christine trilling somewhere in the house. It had taken time but finally she was singing. She had even agreed to apply at the Palais Garnier again. Raoul hung up his overcoat and followed the voice into Christine’s study. Christine was standing tall with her eyes closed, leaning into the music while she sang. She looked so beautiful, caught up in the melody like this.

Raoul stood in the doorframe and waited for her to finish her song before he entered. Her voice was captivating and he almost wished she would never stop. However he had important news to share with her, so when the last note rang out he made himself noticeable and entered the room.

“Oh Raoul,” she beamed at him and greeted him with a swift kiss. “You’re home already.” Her voice bubbled with excitement. Raoul chuckled, relishing seeing her lively spirit returned.

“The meeting went by quicker than expected,” he explained. “There was nothing much to discuss as everything is running smoothly. Afterward Laurent did offer a drink but I wanted to return to you quickly. I have exciting news for you.”

“Me too!” she exclaimed and grinned giddily.

“Yes? What is it?

“No, you go first.” She motioned for him to continue, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“If you wish.” He shrugged his shoulders and produced an envelope from his pocket. “A letter I picked up on the way,” he explained. “For you from the managers at the opera. They want you back.” He smiled when Christine’s eyes widened and she snatched the envelope from his hand. 

“Really?” she asked, not waiting for an answer as she tore the paper and fished for the letter. A smile spread across her face as she scanned the letter, her eyes flitting back and forth across the page. “How wonderful!”

Raoul grinned widely, tremendously happy at her excitement, knowing that a few weeks ago she would have been terrified. Therefore he was all the more taken aback by the words that followed:

“However I believe I’ll have to decline.”

“What? – But Christine, why?” He frowned at his wife. “I thought we talked about this. Isn’t this what you wanted?” He thought they were far enough for her to resume her old occupation. Hadn’t they overcome her fear? Why was she holding back now?

“Has something happened?” Had something upset her? Was that the reason she was backing out? If yes, what had it been and how could he help her? His confusion only mounted when she flashed him a bright smile.

“In a way,” she said. “Though it isn’t what you might think it to be.”

“Whatever it is, tell me. I will help you overcome it.”

“I don’t think _overcome_ is the right word here.” She grinned and bit her lip. It looked adorable but Raoul had no mind for that right now. What was bothering his Christine?

“There is no need to look so worried, darling.” Christine stepped closer and held her hand against his face. “Though I’m not sure if it’d be smartest of me to join the opera now when I would have to leave them again soon.” Raoul’s confusion only increased, which helped nothing with his agitation.

“Why would you have to leave again? Is something threatening you?” He frowned when Christine laughed.

“Not in the least, my dear Raoul. No...” She took a deep breath and suddenly her gaze was much softer. Warm and tender. Her voice too had lost much of its excited force. “There is another reason I would have to break up an engagement with the opera.” She paused and pulled her lip between her teeth, pondering on her next words.

“But Christine, what –?” Christine silenced him with a finger to his lips.

“I would not be able to stay because...” She fell silent again and cast a shy glance at the floor. Her hand was nervously playing with Raoul’s shirt. “I’m...” she mumbled, still not looking at him.

“Christine?” Raoul prodded tentatively. She sighed, impatient at her own hesitance, shook her head briskly and looked back up at him again. A brightness he hadn’t known before shown from her eyes.

“I’m with child,” she burst out. A wide grin spread across her face before she bit her lip again, barely able to contain her excitement now.

Raoul gaped at her, understanding the words but not their meaning. What did she just say? A child?

“Raoul?” A giggle bubbled from her. He shook himself out of his stunned silence. Slowly the words were beginning to sink in, revealing their meaning to him. Yet he needed to hear the words from her mouth again to make sure they were true. Did she really just say she was with child?

“I’m sorry, what?” Christine suppressed a laugh. She held his face in her hands and slowly repeated herself.

“I’m with child, Raoul. In a delicate way – expecting!” she breathed excitedly.

“A child,” Raoul murmured dumbly. Christine nodded.

“We will be parents, Raoul. You’re going to be a father.”

“A father.” A father. A sudden hot joy swept through his body as the words clicked in his brain. A father! His Christine, his beautiful wife, was with child and he would be a father!

“Christine!” he called out jubilantly. He pulled her into a tight embrace and whirled her around once, suddenly feeling dizzy with overwhelming emotions. A laugh burst from his chest and spread through his entire body. “Christine.” He set her down again and buried his face in her hair, breathing in her sweet perfume. A father! “Christine...”

“Raoul,” Christine laughed too. She pulled back to look into his eyes. He could see her own brimming with overwhelming joy. Tears glistened in their corners. He wiped one stray tear away with his thumb. She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, gently rubbing her cheek against his palm. A hot bolt shot through him. He leaned forward and caught her lips with his. He felt her smile against his lips as she leaned deeper into the kiss. Her fingers curled into his hair and she pressed her body against him, suddenly wanting to be as close to him as she could.

Christine’s soft lips against his felt like coming home. He stroked her cheeks and stroked her hair and finally dared to reach a hand to her stomach. He didn’t feel much except for her corset underneath her bodice, but he liked to imagine the life she held inside her now. A life that they had created through their love. How long until he could greet it?

“How – how long... when...?” He found himself unable to produce a coherent sentence, still flushed with dazzling emotions. Christine understood him anyway.

“Since three to four months I think,” she said, her face close to his. “I was suspecting something for a few weeks now.”

“Four months,” Raoul marveled his hand still on her abdomen. Christine smiled.

“You should be able to feel something soon,” she said. “The corset hides it quite well.”

That night in bed Raoul lay by his wife, her back pressed against his chest. He let his hand wander over her abdomen and through the thin fabric of her night gown he could feel it. A bump where previously her stomach had been perfectly flat. His heartbeat accelerated as he thought of the connotation, as he again tried to bring sense to the following words: His wife was with child. His child. They would be parents. He would be a father.

Beneath his arm Christine shifted and sighed contentedly, already deep within the realm of dreams. Raoul smiled and pressed a kiss to her head. There would never be a time – he thought – when he would be able to fully comprehend his luck.

 

* * *

 

Another shrill cry tore from Christine’s throat. Her voice was hoarse from the strain. She let herself drop against the mound of pillows, damp with sweat, as exhaustion took an ever stronger hold of her body.

“Not much longer now.”

Not much longer now. These words had almost lost their meaning to her mind that was clouded with pain. She gritted her teeth as it pulsed through her body, red-hot and merciless. There was no way to distract herself from it. Even the thick air around her smelled of blood and sweat.

“Excellent, Madame. Just do exactly as I say and it won’t take much longer now.”

She felt a damp cloth wiping at her forehead, pushing away the wet curls that clung to her skin. She was panting breathlessly, whimpering at the agonizing waves. All sense of time had evaded her, but she knew that this had gone on for far too long. She didn’t want to do this anymore.

And just then, when she toyed with the thought of simply giving up and let the rest of the room deal with her, it was over. One last strenuous push, a ripping, burning sensation, and the child slipped out into the midwife’s waiting arms.

“Congratulations!” the woman said over Christine’s last pained gasps, “to a healthy son.”

A son. Christine collapsed into the pillows, breathing heavily from the strain. It was over, she had managed and she hadn’t died like the pain had led her to believe she might. She barely heard the cooing voices of the maids around her over the sound of her panting and her heartbeat in her ears. She closed her eyes und just wished to drift away into sleep. A son. The first cries of her child pierced the fog of debility and reached her ears.

A son! Suddenly the exhaustion was washed from her body and replaced by an urge to see her child, to hold her son in her arms and make sure that what the midwife said was true. That he was healthy and whole. She tried to push herself up, wincing when a sharp pang shot through her.

She could not see much as the midwife had her back turned towards her, effectively shielding her child from her view. She was about to speak out in protest, demand to see him immediately, when the woman turned around with a warm smile and handed her a small, squirming bundle.

All thoughts of exhaustion and pain were briefly wiped away when Christine laid eyes on her child for the first time. How could something so tiny be so perfect? She let the midwife show her how to hold him, how to support his small head. She was enraptured by his small features. The stubby little nose, closed puffy eyes, small mouth forming a perfect O shape as he yawned between cries. His hands were held in small fists, aimlessly flailing about his head.

Christine murmured gentle words, looking to soothe him and soon enough he had quieted down, being just as exhausted as his mother. Her son, her healthy little boy. Philippe Gustave – a name Christine and Raoul had both agreed on.

“Welcome to the world, Philippe,” Christine whispered and pressed a soft kiss on his small forehead. His features twitched and a soft mewl escaped him. Christine sighed happily and felt the weight dragging at her eye lids. She felt torn between the want to watch her son and the desperate need to sleep and rest. She hoped to stay awake until Raoul had come to see her. She wanted to be present when the new father saw his son for the first time.

While she waited she was too exhausted, too enamored by her child to notice much around her. From the after-birth to the bustling maids about, everything flew by. She barely noticed Raoul entering the room.

He had stood waiting in front of the closed door with a shaking hand resting on the knob. When the maid had come to find him in his study and told him that his son had been born he had jumped up from his seat immediately. A laugh had risen from his chest and spread through the room. Finally. After hours of tense waiting, of listening to his wife’s tormented cries that the walls couldn’t hold back, of asking himself if all was going well or if there were complications, he could finally breathe freely.

The rapid hammering of his heart drove him forth as he strode down the hallway to the lying-in room. He couldn’t wait to see his child. His son!

Only when his hand touched the handle did he hesitate. What would he find when he stepped inside now? How was Christine? How was his son? A son. With the birth of his first child his life had suddenly taken another rapid turn. He was a father now. Something he wasn’t entirely sure he was up for. He didn’t know the first thing about fatherhood.

Raoul swallowed against the hard lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. Answers to all these doubts and questions lay behind that door. There was no other way of finding out. And it was too late for second guessing, forward was the only way.

Raoul took a deep breath and nervously pulled a hand through his hair. Then he turned the handle and stepped into the room.

The first thing that greeted him in the dim light was the thick scent of sweat and blood that still lingered in the air. He was glad to see that the window was tilted open. And there, within the line of sight to the window, lay Christine, a small bundle carefully resting in her arms. She looked exhausted. Her face was tired and her hair ruffled, still a little damp with sweat. The look upon her face, however, was one of complete adoration.

Slowly Raoul took a few steps closer. He was uncertain about disturbing what seemed to be a private moment. But then Christine raised her gaze to meet his eyes and beckoned him closer with an encouraging smile.

“Come and meet Philippe Gustave, your son,” she said and smiled.

Swiftly he closed the last few meters between them. Then he bent over and looked at his child for the first time. A small gasp escaped his mouth:

“He’s wonderful.” Christine nodded in agreement. In that moment tiny eyelids blinked open and revealed eyes that cast their first unfocused look upon the adoring faces of the young parents.

“Hello, Philippe,” Raoul said gently. He reached out a careful hand and lightly stroked one finger over the chubby little cheek. It was surprisingly soft. Philippe opened his mouth and a small murmuring sound escaped him. Uncontrolled, one hand reached up and rubbed against his face. Raoul was unable to take his eyes off the small human. His son. His flesh and blood. Created from his love for his beautiful wife. It was a miracle he wasn’t quite certain he could grasp.

He turned to meet Christine’s gaze, to share his overwhelming feelings with her, but upon facing her he saw that she had almost dozed off. Her eyes were only half open as she leaned deeply into the mounds of pillows behind her. A small smile crossed Raoul’s face.

“You should rest,” he told her softly. Her eyes flickered open and she straightened up a little, slowly shaking her head.

“I want to stay awake with Philippe for a little longer.”

“I’m certain it would do you both good to rest a little,” Raoul objected with a glance at her worn features. But Christine shook her head again. She didn’t want to be parted from her child just yet. The small presence in her arms, the gentle warmth emitted by his body, so reassuring and so unbelievably right. It was nothing she wanted to let go of just yet. She was a _mother_ now. This was her child. She looked down at the resting features and wondered if the intense feeling of love and protection she felt for her son would ever fade, already knowing the answer.

Philippe shifted slightly in her arms. He seemed more alert now, gazing around even though he would hardly be able to see a thing. Another soft murmur sounded from him. A warm smile spread across her face as she watched her child, completely enchanted.

She didn’t know when she finally fell asleep or when Philippe was taken from the room to let her rest. She woke up briefly to find her surroundings dark and deserted, bathed in a soothing quiet. She felt that there was something missing, but was unable to pinpoint what it was exactly. Only moments before she was again pulled under by the leaden weights of her exhaustion did the thought of Philippe cross her mind. A smile and the sensation of motherly love guided her over into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about childbirth. I have done some extensive reading in both modern and Victorian dated books, so I probably know more than the average person my age, but I have never experienced it myself. So sorry for any inaccuracies.


	3. III

"Philippe, give Laure her doll back." Christine's warning voice sounds from the terrace. She watches as her son begrudgingly returns the china doll to his upset sister before running off to climb a tree. Laure sits in the grass, carefully checking whether her brother had done any harm to her favorite toy. She lets out a dismayed cry when she found that he has.

"Maman! Philippe ripped her dress!" Her brows furrow as she casts her brother an angry look. She stands up and stomps through the grass towards Christine, her forceful steps resonating on the wooden floorboards once she reaches the terrace.

"Let me see, my dear," Christine says and takes the doll that is sullenly thrown into her lap. Some seams on the side have split open and the fabric of the skirt looks rather roughed up.

"Nothing that can't be fixed, sweetheart," she tells her sulking daughter. Laure's blue eyes flash another disgruntled look at her brother, who is now swinging from a branch by his legs, before she lets her mother show her what has to be done.

"See, just a few stitches and a light scrub with some water and soap and the dress will be as good as new." Christine smiles and strokes a few strands of brown locks behind her daughter's ear. Laure huffs, still annoyed.

"Why does he always have to be like that?" she asks, looking at her mother and taking the dolly back. She clutches it tightly against her chest. "Sophie-Jean's brothers never act that way."

"Oh, I'm sure they do, she just doesn't tell you about it." Christine's hand is still resting on her daughter's cheek. Laure doesn't look satisfied with the answer.

"I will have a talk with him," Christine promises. Laure nods reluctantly.

"Tell him he can't have desserts for a week," she mutters.

"We'll see about that," Christine chuckles. "Now, do you need help with fixing the dress?" Laure shakes her head.

"No thank you, Maman." She is half way to the door when a thought crosses her mind. "Can I have some fabric for the dress? I could make her a new bodice." Though it angers her greatly when Philippe demolishes her doll's wardrobe she does greatly enjoy sewing and is always eager to extend her miniature line of garments.

"Of course dear. You know where to find it." Laure smiles and heads off into the mansion, suddenly happy at the prospect of her new project.

Christine's smile fades into a sigh when she trains her eyes on her son, who is confidently swinging around high above the ground. He could be so brash sometimes, too much so for his own good. She gets up and walks towards the tree he is playing in, the words she has already spoken so often replaying in her mind.

"Philippe Gustave, would you come down from that tree this instant." She doesn't enjoy being strict with her children. Nevertheless she has to acknowledge that sometimes there is no other option. Philippe's head pokes out from behind the stem when he hears his mother's warning tone. A disapproving frown rests on her features. An inkling rises in him and he is quick to jump to his defense.

"It was an accident," he protests. His breath escapes his body when his feet collide with the ground. He straightens up and wipes back his shock of ruffled blond hair to find himself looking at his mother's stern expression.

"Accident or not, I expect you to take better care of things that aren't yours." Philippe shuffles his feet, a sulk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I just wanted to have some fun with Laure. She was just fine with it until I took that stupid doll of hers."

"Language," Christine warns. Philippe sighs in annoyance.

"I just wanted to seat it on one of the low branches. No harm in that," he mumbles with a sideways glance at his mother.

"Did you ask Laure before you took the doll?" Philippe grumbles something undistinguishable. Enough to answer Christine's question.

"This is the third time now, Philippe. I thought I had taught you better than to disrespect the property of others." This earns her another unidentifiable murmur.

"Speak clearly when you have something to say." Brown eyes, much like her own, flash at her sulkily. Christine cocks her eyebrow in warning. Philippe sighs and bites his lip in defeat before repeating himself more clearly.

"Yes, Maman. I'm sorry."

"There, was that so difficult? Now you just have to apologize to your sister and this matter can be forgotten." She isn't one to stay cross for long, especially when handling her own children.

Philippe sighs again, a little more exasperatedly this time, though the look he gives her isn't nearly as annoyed anymore.

"Yes, Maman." Christine smiles and pats his arm.

"Well then, better do it now before you forget." Philippe is already headed halfway towards the house when Christine calls to him in afterthought: "Clean yourself up before dinner. You wouldn't want Papa to see you all ruffed up and dirty." Philippe waves to signal that he has understood and vanishes through the door.

 

* * *

 

The family is seated together for dinner, Philippe combed and cleaned, Laure happily fiddling with her doll's new dress. Raoul enters the room just a little late, caught up in his business affairs just a little longer than he had anticipated. He has kisses for his girls and a gentle hand on the shoulder for his son. He seats himself and the staff serves their dinner.

Raoul asks about the day at the mansion and Christine patiently listens to his complaints about Bastien's ludicrous new plan for the business. The children eat mostly in silence, secretly exchanging one unwanted side dish for the other, dreaded greens trading places with hated mushrooms. Their tastes always complemented each other that way, one liking what the other despised. And of course Christine sees their exchange from the corner of her eye but she chooses to ignore it, happy to see that at least some of the sides are eaten.

Dessert comes and with a small spark of satisfaction Laure notices that Philippe's portion is a little smaller. Though it was unlikely done on purpose Laure feels that her brother gets what he deserves and the last bits of hard feelings she holds against him dissolve.

After dinner the children are quick to leave the table, eager to continue their play. Philippe has only recently made himself a handful of new wooden toy soldiers and Laure's doll is in dire need of a personal army. Excited giggles follow them up the grand staircase until they are silenced by the thick wooden door to one of their rooms.

A happy smile crosses Christine's face. She is glad that her children get along so well, even if at times they cover this up quite effectively. Sometimes she thinks their close bond is only natural. They are each the only other close friend they have within the family. And it is bound to stay that way since an unfortunate miscarriage left her unable to bear any more children. That was three years ago. The point when she decided to lay aside her career as a famed prima donna to spend more time with the children she has. She never regrets her decision, though she sometimes feels a twinge of longing when passing the grand Palais Garnier, lit up brightly whenever they stage another opera. Raoul still insists that she sings and so she devotes much time to her children's musical education. Something she finds great joy in.

"Christine?" A tentative hand on her arm pulls her from her reverie. Raoul looks at her expectantly, a warm smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, what?" Christine gives her head just a brief shake to clear the dreamy mist.

"Did you check the mail yet? I'm awaiting a rather important document." Raoul leans back, satisfyingly filled.

"Not yet dear, I haven't had the chance today," Christine apologizes. Raoul gives a small shrug and calls for one of their maids to retrieve today's post for him. The young girl vanishes with a small curtsey and soon returns with a stack of letters held in her calloused hand. "You're welcome, Monsieur."

Raoul takes the letters with a nod and dismisses her. He flips through the envelopes until he finds what he is looking for, a relieved smile crossing his face.

"I thought they would never send it," he mutters and quickly opens the envelope with a knife, which he wipes with a handkerchief before slicing through the paper. He lets the rest of the letters fall on the table. That is when her name written on one of them catches Christine's eye. She reaches for it and examines it carefully. It is not the handwriting of her usual lady friends with whom she occasionally exchanges brief notes of invitations or bits of gossip. And the envelope is stamped as well. She stops in surprise when she realizes that the letter has come all the way from America.

"Raoul, look," she says, eyes still fixed on the envelope in her hands. Her husband leans over and is just as surprised as she is when seeing the stamp and her name with it.

"Open it, dear. Let us see what's inside." Raoul hands her the knife he has just used and Christine takes it, quickly slipping it under the closed flap and pulling through in one fluid motion. Inside are two pages covered in a grand sweeping hand.

"Well, what is it?" Raoul inquires curiously after Christine has read through the letter. She is stunned into silence and simply hands over the pages to her waiting husband. Raoul takes them from her and scans over them. He lets out a sound of surprise once he reads through the proposal written on the paper.

"America," he murmurs and looks up at his wife. "Christine, do you know this... Mr. Caldwell?" Christine shakes her head.

"No, I don't think I have ever heard of him," she answers, having finally found her voice again.

"But he has certainly heard of you," Raoul says. "And quite a price he offers too." He smiles at her, pride ringing in his voice when he speaks next.

"My dear, I never doubted your magnificent reputation as the century's greatest soprano, but to see it spread so widely – though I would lie to say I am surprised." She manages to return the smile at the flattery, still slightly taken aback. She has never earnestly considered returning to her career. Certainly the thought has crossed her mind on occasion, but she never felt the strong need to actually pursue these thoughts.

"What do you think?" she asks now, gaze uncertain, hands fidgeting with the hem of the table cloth. Raoul reaches forward and takes her hands in his, forcing them to calm down.

"I think this is entirely up to you, my dear. We don't need the money. If you don't feel like it we will kindly decline their offer and carry on with our lives as if nothing happened." He smiles warmly. "But if you do – if you feel this is something you want to return to then you will find all the support you need with me. Plus I think the children would be delighted at the prospect of traveling to America." Christine sighs, caught up in her indecision. On the one hand she finds the prospect exciting and she can't deny the anticipatory tingle she feels at the thought of standing on a grand stage once more. But America is so far away and who knows what they will find there when they arrive?

"I think I'll have to sleep on it for a night," she finally decides – or doesn't for that matter.

Raoul nods. "That seems to be the wisest thing to do."

Christine feels a smile on her lips. What would she ever do without her husband's unwavering support?

That night she tosses and turns, unable to find sleep with the weight of the unmade decision firmly anchoring her in the waking realm. She sighs exasperatedly, changing her position yet again, unable to find comfort. Suddenly she feels Raoul's arm around her waist, pulling her closer towards him. She is about to resist when she hears his sleepy murmur in her ear.

"Shh, sleep, Christine. You'll find the right choice sooner or later but it won't fall from the sheets tonight, no matter how much you toss them." She sighs and allows herself to lean into his warm frame. He is right, no good would come from staying up all night. It takes some time to convince her mind of it, but eventually she feels the thick curtain of sleep drape around her. 'Tomorrow,' is the last thought that crosses her mind, 'tomorrow I'll have the answer.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter. Idk I just thought the ending fit so well. As you can see we have sprung ahead around 10 years. Philippe is 10 and Laure is 9 (or will soon be) - in my head I have all the exact dates laid out, but it would be too much to add such trivial information to the story. Just know that all events in America take place in the beginning of September 1893 (if anyone wants to read my plan with dates and such just let me know).  
> Do you want to know the daughter's full name? Laurentine Margaux. Personal preference and such. I had other names planned, but I'm using them in another fanfic of mine (one I'll actually never publish) and then I'd get all mixed up with who had which personality and trying to keep that consistent without unattentively slipping into the personality of the other person in the other fanfic.  
> EDIT: I decided to put the entire chapter in present tense and continue in this way from now on. Kinda like having the first two chapters in sort of a flashback/memory style and now we've caught up with the present time. I really hope I remember to stay consistent with the tense. I normally write n past tense, but I feel switching up the tenses freshens up my writing a little. Let's hope this works out. :)


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with a longer chapter too!  
> This chapter took much more time than I had anticipated. I guess because it started off as more of a transitional chapter. Oh well. I do still hope you will enoy it. And if anybody wants any information (pictures, dates, data etc.) about the ship they are traveling on you can find a link at the end of the chapter.  
> (Sorry for any mistakes. I didn't proof read. But I'll most likely read through this again in a day or two and correct anything I spot.)

Christine’s foot jerkily taps in the rhythm of the carriage as it rattles over the cobble-stoned streets of Le Havre. Her hands are twisted into her lap, the fabric of her dress tightly wound around her fingers. She feels her pulse in her throat and wonders if anybody else can see the steady thrumming of her heart vibrating through her skin. Her stomach feels uncomfortably tight and her jaw hurts from clenching it so firmly. A shiver passes through her body and she lets out a shaky breath, an attempt to calm her nerves.

She isn’t used to this anymore, never truly was in the first place. The public, the attention, the scrutinizing stares of the people when she passes by... the press. And she didn’t have to deal with this for three blissfully calm years. But now that she has decided to travel to America and partake in the grand renaming ceremony of New York’s _Music Hall_ everything returns. And with it the nauseating flutter of nerves that she has never quite managed to control.

She doesn’t show it of course, she is an actress after all, but all skill in make believe is useless against the very real thumping in her ribcage, the very much noticeable tightness in her chest. She doesn’t remember it to be this bad. It must be the long break, the return to all the held expectations. She has a title to live up to. One that has spread all the way to America.

America.

What will await her there? She knows nothing of the people, the customs. Doesn’t know how to speak their language. It is exciting, of course. She is thrilled at the prospect of visiting a new country. And yet she is also unspeakably nervous about this entire undertaking. It isn’t just Raoul, the children and her. This is not just a family trip. She will be singing for a grand ceremony – her first public appearance in years, in front of an unfamiliar crowd. The task seems more than just a little daunting.

Raoul’s hand on her arm draws her out of the mesh of her thoughts. His gentle smile is reassuring and Christine manages to relax a tiny bit, knowing that he’d be there to support her whenever needed. This feeling quickly vanishes when the carriage is drawn out onto the open space of the harbor. She sees the masses of people waiting by the docks and wishes she were back in the spacious solitude of their chateau. Her hand clasps Raoul’s arm and her fingers press into his flesh almost painfully. He lays his hand over hers and murmurs soothingly into her ear.

“You’ll be fine. I’m always right by you.” She nods uneasily and swallows against the sudden dry feeling in her throat.

“Children,” she tries to keep her voice as calm as possible, “when we get out I want you to stay close by and take each other’s hand, understand me?” She meets Laure’s wide eyed gaze. She has never before seen so many people in one place.

“Philippe, you too?” Her son’s face is glued to the window pane, taking in as much as possible. He nods briefly, though Christine isn’t quite convinced he knows what he is agreeing to. “Philippe look at me.” Reluctantly he tears his gaze away to meet his mother’s.

“You will take care of your little sister. Take her hand and make sure she doesn’t get lost.”

“Yes Maman.” Philippe nods obediently before diverting his attention back to the masses.

“Which ship are we going to take?” Laure asks, just as fascinated as her brother.

“The name of the ship is La Touraine. See if you can spot her.” Raoul smiles when both children scramble to the window facing the water, both eager to be the first one to find the ship.

“There! There it is!” Philippe calls out excitedly, pointing out the window.

“I saw it too!” Laure is eager to claim her part in the sighting.

“But I saw it first!”

“Nu-uh.”

“Yeah-uh.” Philippe scrunches his nose at his sister.

“Nu-uh.” A small pink tongue flashes out between rosy lips.

“Laure!” Christine’s rebuking voice sets an end to the children’s quarrel. Shooting apologetic glances at their mother they settle back into their seats and watch with wide eyes as they pull up closer to the docks. Christine feels the palms of her hands dampen.

“Raoul, I –” she begins though her mind is wiped blank. She just wishes to board the ship as quickly as possible, get away from the gawking crowd.

“Don’t worry, Christine. I’ll make sure our luggage is on board, then I’ll come back for you and the children. We’ll be on the ship in no time.” He squeezes her hand reassuringly and she gives him a thankful smile.

The carriage lurches to a halt and with it Christine feels a nervous flutter in her stomach. She watches Raoul climb out and warns their children to stay with her until their father returns. Her gaze flits over the countless heads that bustle around. Grand hats and hairdos stream towards the first class entrance while simpler headwear moves towards the one for the second and third class. A particular luxurious hairpiece causes an uproar by the first class entrance. It belongs to the wife of some famous business man and the press is eager to get her picture and answers to their many questions. Gossip is all they’re after. And of course the announcement of Christine’s return to the stage is the biggest of all.

Christine Daaé, soprano of the century to return to stage in America! Once the owners of _Music Hall_ had announced this, the news had spread like a tidal wave through the public. Once more her name can be heard among and beyond the streets of Paris.

Naturally every newspaper wants to get the most exclusive shot, the best picture of her first public appearance after spending the last three years in a very reclusive manner. Especially when everyone had thought they had seen her go for good.

“Madame de Chagny? It’s time to board the ship.” Their coachman stands by the door, one arm extended to help her out. But Raoul isn’t there yet! Christine’s grip tightens around the seat cushion.

“I would like to wait for my husband,” she responds as calmly as she can.

“I was just informed that the ship is to set off in ten minutes. Unless you want to get left behind I strongly advise you to board now,” the man says with a nervous look at his watch. Noticing her worried face he adds: “I am certain the Comte will be with you any minute.”

Seeming that she has no other choice Christine takes a deep breath to collect herself before taking the coachman’s hand with a gracious smile. Her children hop out after her.

“Stay close by,” she reminds them and follows the direction the coachman indicates. When the throng of people thickens around them she reaches out her hand for her children for fear that she could lose them in the crowd. When her hand grasps into strangers’ clothes and nothingness she turns around hastily, her children’s names frantically leaving her lips.

“We’re here, Maman.” Philippe’s voice sounds from her right. She whisks around, too relieved to rebuke them. She reaches for his hand and makes sure that Laure is holding on as well.

“Don’t leave my side, do you hear?” Her grip around Philippe’s hand tightens a little.

“Yes, Maman,” he replies obediently and adjusts his hold on Laure. Christine nods and forces herself to calm down. Nerves will do her no good now. She pushes on and has almost reached the ship when she notices Raoul forcing his way towards them. A breath she hasn’t realized she held escapes her body.

“I’m sorry it took a little longer.” He smiles apologetically and offers his elbow. “At least we can be certain that our luggage is stored securely.” Christine is just happy to see him and thankfully takes the arm he offers.

Suddenly she hears the call she has dreaded: “Look! There she is! Christine Daaé!” Immediately she is the eye in the hurricane of requests for pictures and bombarding questions. She plasters on her most charming smile and lets Raoul lead her through the chaos, one of her hands firmly closed around Philippe’s.

The ship’s bell comes as a blessing and a curse. The loud ring demands all passengers remaining on land to board immediately, however this prospect sends the reporters remaining on land into a frenzy. Just one last shot! A smile, please, Miss Daaé! People and cameras press in on them and Raoul is forced to make use of his elbow to fight their way through the throng. At last they are swallowed by the ship and the steel walls around them cut out much of the noise. Raoul straightens his coat indignantly.

“The press truly is a pest sometimes,” he grumbles.

 A staff member leads them to their quarters and Christine allows herself to breathe normally again.

The children race off immediately to claim their beds. Outrunning his sister, Philippe ends up taking the one closer to the window and flashes Laure a cheeky grin. After a moment of being caught between a sulk and a biting comment Laure decides that she likes her little nook better anyway and pays no more attention to her brother’s victorious expressions. Instead she dashes right out of their room again.

“Maman, may we explore the ship?” Her eyes shimmer eagerly. She has never been on a ship before and is excited to see as much of it as possible as quickly as possible. Christine on the other hand is held back on her answer by a worried skepticism. It is a strange environment after all and who knows what sort of trouble they could get into? Sensing her mother’s doubt Laure seeks to persuade her with round eyes and begging.

“S’il vous plait, Maman. S’il vous plait. Philippe and I want to see it take off.” She knows from experience that her mother can rarely resist her pleading. “We promise to stay on our level.” It is enough to tip the scales in her favor. Christine gives a resigned sigh and smiles, stroking through the tumble of her daughter’s locks.

“Fine. But promise to stick together and be back half an hour before dinner is served.” Laure nods eagerly and is quick to drag Philippe out their cabin door.

“Where are we going?”

“Maman allowed us to explore the ship!” Laure grins back at him widely. “Come!” Before he knows it she has run off, down the nearest hallway, laughing gleefully as she slips between the legs and skirts of other passengers.

“Hey, wait for me!” He presses hard to catch up with her, ignoring the indignant calls thrown at him. “Where are you going?”

“To see the ship take off!” she laughs and turns the next corner with a small spring to her step. Philippe almost runs into an elderly woman. He only just notices Laure disappearing through a double door while apologizing hurriedly and harvesting a pointed look and a forceful throat-clearing. He doesn’t pay much attention to it though as he is more worried about his sister’s whereabouts. He knows Maman would be anything but pleased if he lost her.

He pushes through the door and spots Laure with her feet on the bars of the railing not too far from him. Her upper body is leaning dangerously far over the topmost bar as she pears into the murky harbor water below them.

“Laure!” Philippe sprints towards her and grabs her bodice, roughly pulling her back.

“Ow! That _hurt_.” She casts him an angry glare.

“I only had your bodice. And I prevented you from falling over board.” Philippe doesn’t understand why his sister is so mad at him.

“You ripped my hair, idiot. And I was nowhere _near_ falling over.” If looks could kill. Philippe crosses his arms defensively. He won’t let his sister treat him this way.

“I am the older one and that means that _I_ am responsible. And that’s why you do as _I_ say.” He narrows his brows at her and steps between Laure and the railing. His sister just rolls her eyes.

“Ugh, why do you have to be such a stupid killjoy?”

“I’m not –”

“Yes you are, and now move aside so I can see. You don’t have to, but _I_ would really like to see this.” She pushes past him and resumes her position at the railing. Philippe opens his mouth as if to say something but the ship’s bell interrupts him. He hears the crew’s shouts and closes his mouth again. There is nothing he had come up with anyway. Instead he turns around to stand beside Laure. When he too steps onto the railing to see better Laure casts him a smirk which he pointedly ignores.

Their quarrel is forgotten when the steam engine labors into action. Both the people on the ship and on shore wave and shout their farewells. Laure and Philippe have a great time waving and shouting at no one in particular as the mighty body of the ship distances itself further from the harbor’s edge.

“I wish I had a handkerchief,” Laure says.

“What for?” Philippe asks.

“To wave with and throw overboard so that a lucky young man may catch it,” Laure looks at him as if she has just stated the most obvious thing in the world.

“I don’t think you’d be able to throw that far,” Philippe points out.

“There goes the killjoy,” Laure sings and grins at Philippe’s offended expression.

“I told you, I am not a killjoy,” Philippe protests.

“Sure,” Laure grin widens, “just wave and enjoy, will you?”

 

* * *

 

When the shore resembles an assemblage of doll houses Laure pulls Philippe away from the railing.

“Come on, let’s look around.” She dashes off and again Philippe has trouble keeping sight of her as she whisks through the people that are on their way back to their rooms. He groans when she disappears through yet another door.

To his luck Laure has come to a halt just behind the door – in such a fashion that Philippe almost knocks her over. He feels he isn’t quite used to the movement of the ship yet. Laure, however, is too caught up in looking around to chide him for his carelessness.

“Look, isn’t this beautiful?” She smiles at the rich decorations before leading them on into the next room. They find themselves facing the elegant double staircase of the lobby landing, its rich mahogany wood gleaming under the grand skylight.

“Who knew they had such pretty halls on this ship? It’s almost like home!” She hurries down one side of the stairs and gasps when she comes to stand at the main stair. A great mirror occupies the opposite wall and reflects the entire magnificent scene back at her. Laure stares in delight at the doubled decorations, the artistically crafted statues and wall paintings.

“Philippe come down. It looks fantastic when you stand in front of the mirror!” She stares back into her own wide eyes that gleam in the rich golden light of the hall. She can barely wait to see what the other rooms have in store. She is distracted by a low moan. She looks up and sees Philippe leaning against the balustrade, looking rather pale around his nose.

“Philippe?” Laure frowns and runs back up to him. “What’s wrong?”

“The floor. It’s moving too much,” he groans again and clings his arms tighter around the rail in a vain hope to stop the rocking. He has have never thought of himself as someone to become sea sick and under different circumstances he might find it rather hurtful to his pride – after all his father had served as a sailor – but in this moment he wants nothing more than the creeping feeling of malaise to subside.

Laure bites her lip and looks with pity upon her ill brother. She hasn’t even realized that the swaying increased.

“We’d better get you back,” she says and proceeds to take his arm and guide him to their quarters. She repeatedly casts suspicious glances at him, worried that he might be sick all over the place. It is hardly something she wishes to be a part of and so she hurries him onwards, ignoring the meek groans of protest.

They are barely through their cabin’s door when Philippe gives an ominous belch, drawing their mother’s attention towards them. Christine’s disapproving frown quickly turns into one of worry when she sees Philippe’s sickly features. She rushes over and takes him from Laure, who is only too glad to bring as much distance between herself and the real threat of being vomited on. She seeks a place on her father’s lap and watches from a safe distance as Christine ushers Philippe into their shared room.

“Not quite the sailor he wants to be,” she mutters with a meaningful look at her Papa.

“You won’t believe it, but I was once sea sick too,” he replies.

“Really?” Laure stares incredulously at her father’s smile.

“Yes indeed. It struck me down for the entire first two weeks of my first practice mission.” He shudders theatrically and Laure giggles. “It’s a horrible time I don’t wish to remember too often.”

“Do you think Philippe will also be sick for so long?” Raoul shakes his head.

“We’ll only need one week to cross the Atlantic. But if he’s unlucky he might feel unwell for the rest of the trip.” He chuckles at Laure’s grimaces.

“I’m glad I’m not sea sick,” she says and leans into her father’s chest. “That would be horrible!”

“It seems you have inherited your mother’s sea legs,” he explains and rubs her shins. “She told me once that she’s been on a great deal of boats and ships in her youth and never felt so much as a stir in her stomach.”

“We are both really lucky then.”

Raoul is about to reply when Christine re-enters the main room, her mouth still drawn into a line that shows the sympathy she feels for her son.

“Raoul, could you please ask a ship attendant for a bucket and some cold water? And a cloth if they have any to spare?”

“Of course.” He looks down at Laure, who is still curled up in his lap. “I’m sorry, love, but you will have to let me get up.” She crawls onto the ground and Raoul gives her a quick kiss on the head before heading off to fulfil Christine’s order.

“Can I do anything, Maman?” Laure scrambles to her feet before her mother can disappear back into their room. Christine turns and smiles warmly at her daughter.

“Not right now, dear.” Laure nods and sits back in the armchair. She hopes that Philippe will feel better soon. Without him the time on the ship wouldn’t be half as fun.

Raoul returns, holding a jug of water in one and a metal bucket in the other hand. A piece of cloth is slung over his shoulders. He vanishes into the other room, leaving the door half open as he passes through.

“Thank you, dear.” That is her mother’s voice.

“The attendant said that these might help too.” Her father’s voice is underlined by a rattling sound of something like pebbles moving about in a small tin box.

“How very kind of him.” The clank of the bucket on the hardwood floorboards and the soft murmur of water that is being poured into a wash basin meet Laure’s ear. Suddenly the soundscape is disturbed by the splatter of chunky liquid, like vegetable soup perhaps, hitting the bottom of the metal bucket, followed by a low moan and her mother’s soothing murmur.

Muffled footsteps approach the door and Raoul reappears from the room. He sits down next to Laure and heaves a little sigh.

“It looks like it will only be the two of us at dinner. Philippe isn’t well enough to join and I believe Maman would rather stay with him. I will ask one of the attendants to bring her meal up to the quarters.” He looks at her and smiles lightly. “Is that fine with you?” Laure nods and returns the smile. Of course it is. She loves spending time with her Papa. His recent business trips have kept him from the family for some while and she knows that whenever he travels he takes the time to visit at least one famous landmark. Laure has always been fascinated by the accounts of his experiences and is looking forward to hearing what he has to tell.

“When are we going?” she pipes, swinging her legs back and forth impatiently. She feels a slight rumble in her stomach and a thirst for adventurous tales.

“Dinner isn’t served until seven but we can take a walk around the ship if you like.” Raoul smiles when he sees Laure’s eyes light up excitedly.

“Yes please! I have to show you this amazing hall with the mirror that we saw. And have you looked into the ocean yet?” She jumps up from her seat and heads to the door, ready to leave this instant. Raoul laughs softly and follows a little slower.

“Maman and I did take a few minutes to see the ship take off. We thought we might run into you.”

“I think Philippe and I were further at the front... are you coming?” Laure stands by the door, handle already in hand.

“I will have to tell Maman and ask if she needs any more help before we go. Can you wait for that long?” Laure nods though her foot is tapping the floor impatiently. She hasn’t seen everything yet and can’t wait to explore more parts of the ship with her Papa. Maybe they would even find some secret places that no one has discovered before them.

 

* * *

 

They don’t, unfortunately, but Laure still has a great time with her Papa. He holds her tight while she leans out wide over the rails to look at the churning waves below – she doesn’t protest his time – and shows her the ship’s bridge. Laure is even allowed a peek inside the cabin when Raoul strikes up a friendly conversation with one of the higher ranking officers. The steering wheel’s polished surface reflects the light of the setting sun. It looks so inconspicuous and yet it is fundamental in setting and maintaining the course of the ship.

She returns to their quarters, satisfyingly filled and head buzzing with everything she saw and heard today. Maman greets them with a smile as they step through the door.

“Did you have a nice time?” she inquires, standing up from the table that holds a recently emptied glass and plate, silver cutlery neatly placed upon the few remainders of her meal.

“We did,” Laure chirps and smiles widely, barely suppressing a yawn as she does so. “Papa showed me where they steer the boat. And he let me look at the ship’s propellers. The water was so wild around them.” Another yawn escapes her.

“It sound like you had a lot of fun,” Christine says and strokes through her daughter’s hair. “I’m sure it will give you wonderful dreams.”

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” Laure protests, cut off by yet another yawn. Raoul chuckles behind her and lifts her into his arms.

“I’ll bring you to bed, princess.”

“Will you tell me another story?” Laure’s eyes are hopeful.

“A short one.” Raoul smiles and vanishes into the children’s room with his tired daughter in his arms. Christine watches them go with a warm look in her eyes before turning back toward the table. She quickly gathers up all the dinnerware and places it onto the small cart on which the dinner had been brought to her. Then she sits down in one of the armchairs with a book in hand. She tries to focus on the content but thoughts of America keep distracting her. There is no turning back now. Whatever happens from now on is less under her control than anything has been in years. And she will have to deal with it one way or another. These thoughts bring forth a feeling she hasn’t felt in a long time. Nervous anticipation mixed with excitement dancing through her, following the nerve-tingling steps of a perfectly thrilling choreography. She isn’t sure whether to smile or bite her lips.

She doesn’t notice Raoul returning to the sitting room or his thoughtful gaze as he takes in the faraway look in his wife’s eyes.

“Why so tense?” he asks and sits himself down next to her. Christine sighs and tries to shake the worries from her mind.

“I just don’t know what to expect in America. I guess it’s making me more nervous than I thought,” she admits, kneading the pages of the book that still lies open in her lap.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he replies and sits down next to. “After all you have gone through this before. You know what to expect.”

“Do I? We’ve never been to America.”

“Same thing, different crowd, isn’t it?” He smiles and gives her hand a small squeeze. Christine doesn’t smile back, but further worries the edges of her book. Raoul sighs and reaches for the papers that lie on the coffee table.

 

* * *

 

The loud ringing of the ship’s bell announces that their arrival is not far off, bidding all passengers to prepare for departure. The Chagnys are standing near the head of the boat, free to enjoy the view, knowing that their luggage is taken well care of.

Philippe points excitedly when he sees the harbor of New York drawing nearer, the Statue of Lady Liberty standing gloriously proud and tall as she watches over the incoming ships.

“Look Maman, Papa, we’re almost there!” He whisks his head around to make sure that his parents are taking in the sight. The last three days on the ship have left him feeling continuously better, enabling him to muster just as much pleasant anticipation as his sister.

“Yes dear, it shouldn’t take us longer than 20 minutes until we set foot on solid ground again,” Christine says, amused by her children’s unreserved exhilaration.

“Quite an impressive gift we’ve made,” Raoul comments upon admiring the grand copper lady shimmering promisingly in the evening light.

“What do you mean Papa?” Laure looks at Raoul quizzically, her head tilted to one side.

“This statue was a gift from the French to the people of America,” Raoul explains. Laure looks at the statue with wide disbelieving eyes.

“But she’s so huge! How did she get here?”

“She was transported in separate pieces.”

Laure nods, her mouth forming a small O as she turns back to observing the statue.

Soon they pass by Bedloe’s Island and steers a sure course into the harbor. Christine and Raoul usher the children back to their cabin to grab the last of their belongings and wait until the ship has safely docked. Ten minutes later an attendant informs them that they are free to leave the ship now. The children jump up giddily, each one eager to be the first one to set foot on American ground. Christine’s calls to wait are unheard as they race down the hall in an attempt to outrun the other.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they won’t just let two children run off the ship like that,” Raoul laughs good-naturedly and attempts to calm his wife who is agitatedly pushing through the departing crowd.

“I’d have still preferred if they hadn’t run off in the first place,” she snaps back, ignoring the protests of those people she startles with her determined stride. She doesn’t even hear them over the pounding pulse in her ears or the nervous twist in her stomach. They haven’t yet properly set foot on land and already she is in fear of losing her children.

A great sigh escapes her lungs when she sees them standing by the side of an attentive attendant, who hasn’t let them through.

“Thank goodness,” Christine mutters and rushes towards them. She scolds them, though there is no bite in her voice, just relief that they weren’t snatched away in their recklessness. They look at her with a hint of guilt in their eyes when she makes them promise to never run off like that again.

“Yes, Maman, we promise.”

By now Raoul has caught up with them as well. The children shuffle their feet when he warns that they shouldn’t worry their mother like that, though their brief gloom is quickly forgotten when they head towards the exit together, reprimands pushed aside and instead replaced by eager anticipation.

Outside on the cobbles of the harbor people of the press and gossip mongers are eagerly awaiting the arrival of La Touraine’s passengers, specifically those rich and important enough to be of any interest. They bustle about, scrambling for the best places, aggressively pushing those aside that have the effrontery to block their view. A wild whir of sounds and voices that leaves Christine dizzy upon hearing it.

She and her family are not yet in sight of the masses. They are still in customs. She still has a few precious moments to collect her thoughts and find her poise, to set up the act that she is about to deliver: grand star returning to the public – not nervous mother of two unexpectedly finding herself back in the limelight.

“Can you see her yet?”

“No. No sight of her so far.”

Reporters setting up their cameras, impatiently flicking their tongues over the tips of their pencils. While they wait they entertain themselves with all the other names that pass by them. It keeps them occupied until Christine has no other choice but to step out herself. They have gotten through customs and now only the press awaits her.

Raoul offers his arm and Christine takes it with a smile. She isn’t alone in this. She isn’t only Christine Daaé but also, and foremost, Christine Comtesse de Chagny. She takes a deep breath and lets the evening air greet her.

“There she is!”

“Where?”

“There! I can see her!”

“Christine Daaé!”

The tumultuous voices take on form and direction as they greet their main attraction, the reason most of their owners trudged out to this overcrowded harbor in the first place. And, oh, it is worth it. What a sight she is to see! Perfectly suiting the tale that they had spun around her.

The press, ever hungry for sensation and a good story as they are, had jumped at the announcement of a famous French opera star coming to sing for the celebratory renaming of their greatest city’s Music Hall. They had dug up the old tales and uncovered her past, which – in their eyes – was akin to a perfectly tragic fairy tale. By the time her arrival was announced, the story around her person and the infamous Paris Opera House had mounted to almost mythical proportions. Christine Daaé. The name that previously only opera aficionados had known now sparked interest and recognition wherever it went

When she finally emerges the crowd collectively holds its breath before breaking out in a frenzied scramble for her attention. They all want to know if she truly is the fairy tale they created around her.

Christine passes through the tumult on her husband’s arm, children obediently trailing behind her. She carries herself with a natural air of regal grace, a pleasant smile decorating her features – a sight the press would describe as “absolutely lovely” or “positively stunning” in tomorrow’s papers. She is everything the public hoped her to be: beautiful, polite and perfectly charming. In fact the whole family seems crafted from the lines of a storybook. The husband elegant and handsome, the children well-behaved and oh so precious.

She answers questions and stands for a shot or two. She manages the balance of seeming engaged, when really she is revealing as little as possible. Her husband serves as her interpreter, being better versed in the English language than she is. His French accent adds to their distinct foreign charm and makes them seem all the more enchanting. After all the French are described as the pinnacle of fine culture.

It is an encounter that passes far too swiftly for the press and leaves them wanting more, though for Christine it couldn’t have passed quickly enough. She is relieved when she sits down in the carriage that has drawn up for them. Raoul takes a seat opposite of her and smiles softly.

“We’ll be taken to our hotel rooms. The manager of Music Hall thought it best to give us a night’s rest before we meet with him.” Christine nods and directs her gaze out the window. She can still see the bustling journalists, though their presence is slowly thinning out now. A knock on the carriage door draws her attention.

“The luggage is all set, we’re ready to leave now,” the coachman says with a brief tip of his hat before taking his seat on the coach box. Soon thereafter the carriage rumbles on into the darkening streets of New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the link to a page about La Touraine: http://www.searlecanada.org/volturno/volturno80.html - it's some awesome 5 pages of info and pictures of the ship. It was important to me to use a ship that was actually operated during that time and had it's home port somewhere in France. You know, to keep it all more or less historically correct.
> 
> That's what brings me to my next point: Carnegie Hall. Originally I planned on having Christine sing for the opening and simply not regarding the 2 years of differences in time (cause it was openend in May 1891). But that discrepancy started to bug me a little and when I found out that it was renamed in 1893 I got super excited and now Christine sings for a big renaming celebration. I don't know if such a festivity ever took place, but I believe I can take some artistic liberties here.
> 
> Also, if you thought the description of Christine and her family when they arrive in NYC seems a bit glorrified you are right. I just wanted it to feel a bit like you were seeing them through the distorted, fairy-tale filter that I made the press create around her (and through which they subsequently see her). I hope that worked out.
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait. This chapter is a little shorter again. Still needing to set the scene and everything.

“Welcome! My dear Madame de Chagny, what a pleasure to meet you at last.” A tall blond man in his 50’s greets them with open arms and heavily accented, but otherwise flawless French as Christine and her family make their way into the foyer of Music Hall. His impressive moustache scratches the back of her hand when she graciously accepts the kiss he places there.

“And you too, Monsieur le Comte. It is an absolute delight to have you all here in New York City.” He turns back to Christine with a broad, jovial smile on his face. “I was thrilled beyond words when I read that you agreed to sing for our celebration. How absolutely wonderful.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Caldwell.” Christine can’t help but return his smile – the man’s good mood is infectious.

“I believe these are your children?” He looks warmly at Philippe and Laure who stand closely at the other’s side just behind their mother.

“Yes, this is my son, Philippe Gustave, and my daughter, Laurentine Margaux.” Upon a gentle nudge from Christine they respond to Mr. Caldwell with shy gazes and swift smiles.

“This must be very exciting for you. Mommy is singing and you get to travel to America.”

Laure just looks at him with wide eyes while Philippe nods and dares to speak up in response: “Yes, sir, we enjoy it very much.” Mr. Caldwell smiles in delight.

“How wonderful. Now – if you would please follow me. I want to show you around our magnificent Music Hall.” He rubs his hands together and strides off, beckoning them to follow him. His voice is loud and his gestures broad as he leads them through the building. He shows them around the foyer and through the dressing rooms, the manager’s office and the two smaller concert halls until he finally reaches Main Hall.

Laure lets out an audible gasp when they are led onto the first balcony. “It’s so beautiful.”

Christine has to agree with her daughter. She casts her gaze over the majestic gold and white hall, plain yet intricately designed. The high ceiling and grand stage emanate an overpowering feeling of grandeur, all wrapped up in an elegant dignity. It is easy to imagine the hall filled to the brim with people, every last seat taken. All eyes are trained on the stage as they wait for a great performance, the anticipatory buzz seeps backstage and infiltrates the musicians’ minds with that sweet nervous rush. She can almost feel it.

“Christine?” Raoul’s voice pulls her back into reality.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, slightly flustered that she has let herself get carried away like this.

“Mr. Caldwell just asked if we would like to take a closer look at the stage.” He smiles at her and Mr. Caldwell too only has the most genuine curl around his lips.

“Yes please,” she says to him directly in what little English she knows. The man’s smile broadens and he stride’s forth with enthusiasm, back out of the hall to lead them through the backstage area.

When he leads them out onto the stage he is surrounded by an air of unmistakable pride. Which man wouldn’t be if they were the manager of a venue as magnificent as this one? He watches joyously as the children run out from behind their parents, finally shaking their shyness lose.

“Wow. Maman look, it looks even better from here!”

Christine can barely help but slip back into her brief fantasy. It is a strong, irresistible pull that betrays how much she has truly missed to perform, taking even her by surprise. It floods her with an intensity she hadn’t even known of herself.

Raoul watches his wife’s glowing expression in delight.

“Was it not a good idea to have come here?” he asks quietly. Christine turns on him with the brightest smile and grabs to squeeze his hand. She would have loved to kiss him, but she daren’t do so in front of the manager, propriety keeping her in check.

“Thank you for this, Raoul.” After all it was he who had helped her decide to come and supported her in sticking to that decision once it had been made.

Raoul presses a swift kiss to her cheek. “There is nothing to thank me for.”

 

* * *

 

“Follow me, I have another treat to show you.” Mr. Caldwell leads them out of his office where they had just spent the better part of 1 ½ hours discussing Christine’s performance and the festivities surrounding it. The children are eager to leave the room and shoot out under Mr. Caldwell’s extended arm, earning them an amused chuckle.

“I assume business talk does not quite meet your idea of a fun afternoon.” He locks the door behind him before resuming his position in the lead. “Well I might just have something a little more entertaining to show you – if you would want to come with me.” He follows a path back to the great foyer, occasionally turning his head to drop another bit of trivia about Music Hall itself. He stops right before the main entrance.

“I have organized us a carriage to take us to The Metropolitan Opera House. Our current music director Anton Seidl has been asked to conduct a ballet for tomorrow night’s performance and I thought you might enjoy to watch their last dress rehearsal before I introduce you.”

“We would love to,” Christine replies. Mr. Caldwell flashes her one of his broad smiles and leads them out onto the street where a carriage is already waiting.

It doesn’t take them long to reach their destination and soon Mr. Caldwell is leading them through the magnificent halls of the opera house. They silently slip through a door into the concert hall and find themselves seats not too far from the stage. Christine is immediately enraptured by the performance. It throws her back into memories of her own days in the corps de ballet in Paris.

“Mérante’s and Delibes _Sylvia,_ ” Mr. Caldwell whispers. Christine nods, having already recognized it. She remembers performing it herself in 1878. Meg and her had loved it and watched in awe when the Prima Ballerina took the stage.

“I remember enjoying this piece greatly in the corps de ballet,” She says. Mr. Caldwell looks at her in mild surprise.

“I never knew you were a dancer too.”

“She used to be, before she was discovered as Prima Donna,” Raoul says with a proud smile.

“Then you must find a special amount of appreciation for their corps.” Mr. Caldwell directs at Christine while gesturing at the stage. She smiles and nods in agreement.

“It is breathtaking to watch,” Christine says.

“Their Prima Ballerina is from Paris too,” Mr. Caldwell remarks as if he had only just remembered. Christine is about to ask who she is, but he has already turned his attention back to the stage as the music swells into a particularly grand flurry. She decides it is a question she could just as well keep for later and follows his example of simply watching and enjoying. It is then that she pays closer attention to the Prima Ballerina. She seems peculiarly familiar, bearing a striking resemblance to an old friend. Probably just a trick of the light.

The rehearsal is marvelous to watch and Christine finds herself thinking of Meg more than once. She would have been enraptured by the dancers’ grace and skill, most of all by the agravic elegance of their Prima Ballerina.

As soon as the final note of the ballet rings into silence Christine lifts from her seat and applauds enthusiastically. Mr. Caldwell and the others join her.

“Come and meet the conductor.” The older man beckons towards the orchestra pit. A lusciously-haired, bespectacled man greets them with a polite smile and a kiss to Christine’s hand. He introduces himself in curiously accented French and speaks of his great joy to be working with someone of Christine’s caliber.

“I am convinced we will have the most pleasant time,” he says.

“Most certainly,” Christine agrees. “I admire what I have heard so far.” She gestures towards the orchestra. Seidl bends his head in slightly in a gesture of humble gratitude.

“Your praise flatters me, Madame.” They spend a while in idle chit chat before Seidl excuses himself. He wishes to run through a particularly tricky part again before he releases his musicians for a break. They part with polite smiles. He seems a well-mannered but distant person.

“Before we leave, is it possible to visit the dancers? I wish to pay my respect to them. Their performance was outstanding.”

Moments later she finds herself blazing a trail through the coordinated chaos that is the backstage area on her way to the ballerinas’ dressing rooms. She is met by an excited bunch of girls still flitting about in their costumes, happily chatting away. Christine congratulates them warmly, trying her best at fitting the unfamiliar English words around her tongue. She is taken slightly by surprise when two of the girls recognize her and bubble over with excitement.

“You leave an impression wherever you go,” Raoul jokes in her ear, joining her in paying his compliments.

“Where can we find your Prima Ballerina?” he asks one of older ones that has kept a calm exterior. She points them a little further down the hall. Just then the dressing room door opens and a lithe blonde steps out of her room, drawn out by the ever so much louder-than-usual chatter.

“What is this commotion?” she asks authoritatively, bright blue eyes scanning the scene. They widen suddenly when she sees who stands at the center of the buzzing throng of girls.

“Can it be?” she mutters under breath. Quick steps carry her forward and immediately the girls shuffle aside to make way. Meg has acquired her mother’s imperious manner.

“Christine?”

Christine whips around at the familiar voice. She gasps when she sees the Prima Ballerina up close and realizes she hadn’t just imagined the resemblance.

“Meg!” Christine’s voice is breathless. She would had never expected her best friend, whom she hadn’t seen in over a decade, to suddenly stand in front of her in the dimly lit hallways of an American opera house. Meg mimics her astounded expression, the light of joy gleaming in her eyes.

“It’s so good to see you!” The blonde blurts out. Christine only manages a slack-jawed nod, at loss of any coherent words. Meg smiles brightly and suddenly the two women burst into a delighted laughter as they fall into each other’s arms.

“Goodness how I’ve missed you.” Christine finally manages to regain control over her tongue and suddenly finds the words tumbling from her mouth. “How have you been? You are a Prima Ballerina now. I saw your rehearsal, it was marvelous!” Meg laughs lightly and pulls back from the hug to answer.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are flushed with her joyous emotions. “Maman and I decided to leave for America – start a new life and all that sappy stuff.” She chuckles. “I soon found a place in the opera’s ballet – and things have been going well ever since.”

“I can see that. You look fantastic. And your dancing was just breathtaking.” Christine smiles widely, elated to know of her friend’s great success. “So you say Agathe is here too? How is she?” Meg nods.

“Yes, we came here together. She’s found herself an occupation at some local theater. But enough about us – how have you been? I read about you in the news.” She grins as she recites the headline in a theatrical voice: “‘Soprano of the century Christine Daaé returns to stage!’ I wouldn’t have dreamed of meeting you though.” It is now Christine’s turn to look humbly flattered.

“I never dreamed of returning to stage. And in America of all places. But the children love it here.” She turns around and motions for Raoul, who had stood aside to allow his wife the full joy of her reunion, to bring Philippe and Laure forward. Meg is delighted to see them and greets Raoul almost as joyously as she has greeted Christine.

“It is so good to see you too,” she says happily as she pulls from her quick embrace.

“They joy is all mine,” Raoul responds heartily. He is just as surprised as Christine to find the small dancer here.

“So these are your children?” Meg smiles brightly at the two. “My, the resemblance is striking.”

“These are Philippe and Laure.” Christine gently nudges her children forward. “This is Meg, my dearest friend from way back when we were still just chorus girls and ballet rats at the Palais Garnier.” She lays a hand on her friend’s arm and Meg smiles warmly back at her.

“So how do you like America so far?”

“Very much, Madame,” Philippe responds politely. Laure nods in agreement.

“Your dancing was very beautiful,” she murmurs. Meg smile widens.

“Thank you very much, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Laure returns the smile, deciding she likes Meg.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in each other’s company. Mr. Caldwell bids them farewell as they leave the opera while Meg proposes to catch up in a café nearby. She has the ambitious goal on filling in on everything she missed about her friend’s life and Christine’s goals are no smaller. Eventually Raoul offers to take the children back to the hotel while the women find themselves inclined to an evening stroll through Central Park.

The air is crisp and Christine almost longs for a warmer coat. Meg hooks her arm into Christine’s and leads her along the pathways. They amble through the greenery, which has already taken all kind of different shades of reds, browns and oranges, the colors just showing in the gray evening light. A jovial cloud of laughter and engaged chatter follows them – there is still so much to catch up on and so many memories to relive.

By the time Christine’s feet are tired and the moon has risen over them, lending a silver hue to their surroundings, they are not yet nearly done with their exchange. Nevertheless Meg accompanies her back to the hotel, knowing that tomorrow will be very demanding of her friend. They part with a warm hug and Meg’s promise to come by tomorrow if her rehearsal and performance schedule allow it.

“Are there still tickets available for your performance tomorrow?” Christine inquires curiously. She would love to see Meg perform.

“I believe so. I can bring you some tomorrow.” She grins, creasing the fine lines around her eyes.

“That would be wonderful.” Christine gives Meg another squeeze and vanishes into the hotel lobby. Through the glass door she catches a last glimpse of her friend before stepping into the elevator.

That night in bed she has trouble sleeping. The events of the day cascade down on her, prohibiting her transition into the sleeping world. Meg. She has met Meg! A coincidence that still leaves her head reeling. Of all the people... She smiles and snuggles closer to Raoul who is already gently snoring. If today had already brought her the reunion with her dearest friend, what else would this journey have in store for her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meg!  
> Also, I've never been to Carnegie Hall (or New York for that matter - I've only been to the West Coast for a family vacation. I live in Europe. (Guess where!))  
> Anyway, back to the story. So, as I've never been to New York you will find that not everything I might describe is 100%-ly accurate. Nevertheless I try my best to stay as accurate and plausible as possible. I do have to warn you about some fine architectural changes to Carnegie Hall and surrounding buildings in future chapters. It's for the sake of the story line (I don't want to give too much away).  
> Meanwhile enjoy yourself with this awesome link I found! (For all the people like me that don't know what the Isaac Stern Auditorium (Main Hall in this story because it was only named that way 1997) and the Ronald O. Perelman Stage (I don't know when that was given its name) look like). (Spoiler - it's pretty awesome. 360° view!)  
> http://www.carnegiehall.org/Information/Stern-Auditorium-Perelman-Stage/


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I, the lazy butt that has finally updated again. Sorry for the long wait.

Music Hall is abuzz with musicians and stage hands that flit through the narrow backstage hallways, unhindered in their work by the tumult around them. Christine has just been shown to her dressing room and she smiles when she closes the door on the noisy hallway. It reminds her of the days back in the opera.

“What are you going to do today, Maman?” Philippe sits on a couch and swings his legs back and forth so that they jump back when they hit the couch. Laure stands in front of Christine’s boudoir and admires all the flasks and boxes and other little gadgets that are neatly stacked against the mirror.

“Today I’m going to get to know the orchestra and have my first go at the pieces I am to sing,” Christine answers.

“Didn’t you learn them yet?” Laure looks up from her inspection and meets her mother’s gaze in the mirror. Christine shrugs with a small apologetic smile.

“The score arrived a week before we set off. I had a look at it but I haven’t had the chance to properly sing any of it yet,” she confesses. “I know the pieces though.” Laure nods earnestly.

“Good,” she says. She wants her mother to do her very best. Everybody should be in awe of her. It wouldn’t work if she didn’t know her song. Christine smiles and strokes her daughter's hair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have everything down to a tee at the performance,” she says, having seemingly read her daughter’s thoughts. Suddenly a knock can be heard at the door.

“Christine?” Raoul’s voice sounds through the wood. The handle turns and he steps into the room, smiling at his wife. “They are ready for you.”

“Let’s go then.” Christine gathers the score and her children and follows Raoul out into the hallway. Askew glances and a few whispers follow them. All but a handful have only heard of Christine’s talent but never her voice in person and are curious to finally hear for themselves if what they had been told about that extraordinary instrument was true.

Mr. Seidl greets them with a polite smile and a small bow – just a bend at the waist really. Christine allows him to take her hand to his lips and smiles back just as politely. She follows when he leads her to the piano.

“A couple of run-throughs before we rehearse with the orchestra,” he says and takes a seat behind the keys. Christine nods in agreement and when Mr. Seidl begins to play she quickly flips through the score to the correct piece. She smiles when she sees it. Her Papa had played it to her on the violin once, a long time ago. It had been a pleasant surprise to find it in the envelope she was sent.

Laure watches her mother closely. She loves to watch her sing. It is almost as good as hearing her sing. She always thinks that her Maman transforms a little with each song. Sometimes she is a princess, sometimes a witch or just a girl on the streets, changing with each song she sings. It is like watching a character in one of her fairytales come to life.

She smiles and lets her gaze wander over the other people that have gathered to watch and listen. Many stand completely still, transfixed by her mother’s voice. Laure feels pride swell in her chest and a little smug satisfaction that she can ask her mother to sing to her whenever she wants.

Laure grabs her father’s arm and squeezes it a little.

“Look,” she says, wanting him to see the reaction of the others.

“Mhm, yes dear,” he murmurs absentmindedly. Laure looks up at his face and sees a strange look in his eyes. It is what she imagines the prince to look like when he sees a magical creature, or his princess, for the first time. She wonders if ever anyone will look at her that way.

Her brother is not quite as captured and Laure quickly walks over to him.

“Philippe,” she hisses in his ear. He looks down at her and follows her pointing finger to the group of listeners. He grins when he sees their awed gazes.

“She is like a siren in the sea,” he says. Then he looks around at their father and his grin widens a little. “Come,” he says to Laure and takes her by her arm. No one notices them slip through on of the doors into the offstage area.

“What are we doing?” Laure asks him.

“We can listen to Maman sing often enough – and we still got the performance, but when are we going to get to explore Music Hall like this again?” He grins at her and Laure finds herself grinning back. They slip through the corridors and in and out of any room that crosses their way and isn’t locked. It’s an adventure. They are sent to figure out Music Hall’s secret and identify any relics that hint at the man who tries to protect it.

“Beware – he mustn’t find out that we are on to him,” Philippe whispers as they creep through an empty office. “He is a magician and when he sees us he will put us under a spell and take us away.” Laure nods solemnly and concentrates on placing her feet with special care. They both freeze when they hear steps coming down the hallway.

“The magician!” Laure whispers with wide eyes. Philippe presses his finger to his lips and motions for her to hide behind the desk with him. They duck behind the dark wood and wait until the steps fade away in the distance.

“That was close,” Philipe says and crawls from their hiding place. “We need to move on or he will come back and find us.”

Laure stays behind her brother while he carefully checks the hallway. When the coast is clear he slips out the door and motions for her to follow. Suddenly he jumps back and presses her behind one of the columns that decorate the corridor. Laure almost yelps in surprise but Philippe presses his hand against her mouth and silences her with a warning glare. Laure shoots him a heated glare and licks his palm. Philippe yanks his hand away in disgust.

“Ugh.” He wipes his hand on his trousers and shoots her a dirty look. “Why did you do that?” Laure simply shushes him with a finger to her lips, reminding him to keep quiet. In the silence they hear another pair of feet briskly make their way down the corridor. The press themselves further behind the column, into the shadow of the curtains that are decoratively draped at each side, and watch as Mr. Caldwell passes by them without even a second glance. Philipe lets out an audible breath when he turns a corner and is gone from sight.

“That was close. We have to be extra careful.” He is about to continue his way down the corridor when Laure holds him back.

“Look Philippe, what is this?” Philippe pushes past her and looks at the gap between the decorative panels Laure has noticed. He frowns and squeezes his fingers into the gap.

“There is air coming out of it,” he says. Experimentally he presses against the panel and exclaims in surprise when it moves a bit to the side.

“What is it?” Laure tries to peer over Philippe’s shoulder. Philippe pushes with greater force and the panel slides open to reveal a dark, narrow corridor.

“A secret passage!” Philippe and Laure stare into the darkness with awe.

“Wow.”

“What are you waiting for?” Laure gives her brother a light shove. Philippe shoots her a look before he crawls through the opening. Laure watches him get to his feet once he is through.

“It’s high enough to stand.” She hears him say. “But it’s very dark... Are you coming?” Laure bites her lip and crouches down to follow her brother. When she crawls into the corridor she feels wood under her hands. She looks up and can just make out her brother’s form in the darkness. She stands up and looks back at the opening. The curtain has fallen back over the entrance, blocking out much of the light that could have come in. Unconsciously she grabs for the back of her brother’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything about it.

“Ready?” he asks and Laure nods before she realizes he can’t see her.

“Yes,” she answers.

“Okay then, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Enthusiastic clapping follows the end of Christine’s first run-through. There were a few mistakes here and there, but all in all it had been a successful start, reassuring Christine in her confidence that she would have everything perfected by the time of the performance.

She turns on her audience with a smile and a gracious little bow.

“Very good,” Mr. Seidl offers his compliments with a small smile. “Should we take it one more time from the top?” It is not a question.

“One moment, please.” Christine puts her score aside and makes her way over to Raoul, who looks at her with a wide, proud smile on his face.

“That was wonderful,” he says.

“Thank you,” Christine smiles. She looks around for Philippe and Laure, but can see them nowhere.

“Raoul, where are the children?”

“Huh?” Raoul turns around in confusion. He had thought them at his side this whole time. “Maybe they went back to the dressing room. Or they are snooping around the backstage area.” He looks back at Christine and sees the worry in her eyes. He lays a hand on her arm.

“Don’t fret, dear. I’m sure they’re not far. I will go look for them.”

 

* * *

 

Slowly they’re eyes had adjusted to the dark and enabled them to make out the faint outlines of the corridors. It pushed away their initial fear and caution and now they are excitedly wandering through the maze of different passageways that present themselves to them. Sometimes they come to other hidden doors and soon discover that the entire Music Hall seems to be accessible through this secret network.

“That’s Maman!” Laure whispers excitedly when she hears the voice of her mother seep into the corridor. A small ray of light shines through the wooden panels up ahead and Laure pushes past Philippe to take a look. She peers through the little hole in the wall and finds that they are a good 10 feet above the stage, with an excellent view presenting itself to her.

“Look, Philippe, you can see everything.” She steps aside to let her bother have a look too.

“Where’s Papa?” he asks and searches around for their father. Laure pushes him aside to look for herself.

“Do you think he’s looking for us?” Laure asks, her voice betraying feelings of guilt.

“Maybe,” Philippe says. “Do you think we should go back? We don’t Maman to be too worried or she’ll never let us off on our own again.” Laure nods in agreement.

“How do we get back?” she asks.

“I think we should go on until we find the next exit.” He doesn’t wait for Laure’s agreement and pushes past her down the corridor. Laure sneaks one last look at the stage before following him.

It turns out trying to find an exit is far more difficult that accidentally running into one. They wander around for half an hour, running into dead ends, taking turn after turn in the darkness until both of them have lost any sense of orientation. Finally Philippe suggests to turn back.

“We came across a couple of them further back. We could try to find them again.” The look Laure gives him speaks volumes of doubt.

“How will we find our way back? It’s not like we marked any of the turns we took. And in this darkness every corridor looks the same.” She has started to chew on her lip again. Philippe sighs.

“We have to find some way and the only two options are turning back or going on and I think we might recognize one of the exits that we’ve already come across.”

“We wouldn’t even recognize the last turn we took,” Laure shoots back. It was all fun and games when they were still on their adventure but now she wants to get back to Maman and the longer they fail to find a way back the more anxious she is to leave this place.

“It doesn’t matter if we recognize the turn – we just need to find a door,” Philippe wants to put his hand on Laure’s arm but she yanks it away.

“We haven’t found a door in ages. It’s as if they have all suddenly vanished.” She hates that her voice sounds teary. She swallows angrily before speaking again: “We’re trapped in here.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Philippe retorts. “Of course we’re not trapped. We found a way in and we’re going to find a way out again. We just have to stay calm and keep on looking, okay?” He takes hold of Laure’s hand. She doesn’t protest.

“Now we’re going to go back because we know we’ve seen a couple of doors along that way. We’ll be out in no time, you’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

“And?” Christine rushes over to Raoul who has just walked onto stage. Her heart flutters anxiously when he shakes his head.

“I didn’t find them yet. But don’t worry, I’ll ask one of the stagehands for help. They know their way around here better than I do. We’ll find them in no time, you’ll see.”

“I’ll come with you,” Christine says. Raoul raises his hand and holds her back gently.

“Stay here and rehearse. I will find them. There is no need to worry.” Christine is about to protest when she thinks better of it and simply sighs.

“Please find them quickly.”

“Don’t worry.” He leans in for a quick kiss and squeezes her hand before heading off stage again. Christine watches him leave before she turns back to Mr. Seidl who stands waiting by the piano. One more run through the most difficult parts before they will try their first round with the orchestra.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand this,” Philippe mutters under his breath. He presses his shoulder against the panel with all his might but it won’t budge. “I swear there was a door here. Right next to this funny pile of ropes.” Laure just shrugs her shoulders.

“I don’t remember,” she admits defeatedly. She had been excited when Philippe had suddenly quickened his pace – they had been here before! And there was a door nearby. Only there wasn’t. It was locked and thus just another part of the wall. But Philippe didn’t give up hope. He thought he remembered another one right around the next corner next to a funny pile of ropes.

“Somebody must have locked them,” he says. His voice is a pool of annoyance with worry creasing the edges. Laure briefly wonders how much more chewing her lips can take. Philippe sits back and sighs in exasperation.

“You might just believe that there is a real magician here somewhere,” he says and creases his brows at the locked door.

“Is there a way I can help you?”

Philippe and Laure both yelp in surprise when a shadowy figure appears before them. He is nothing but a deepening of the darkness save his burning yellow eyes that peer at them from behind a white mask. Laure rushes behind Philippe and digs her nails into his shoulders.

“The magician,” she whispers. Her voice is trembling and so are Philippe’s knees. They both stare at the figure in silence, eyes wide and hearts hammering in their chests.

“You seem a little lost, if I might say so.” His voice is very pleasant, entrancing even. So much so that the children find themselves relaxing a little. Philippe dares to nod.

“Y-yes sir. We-we can’t find our way back out. All the doors seem to be locked.”

“Are they now?” The yellow eyes glint curiously. “What a shame.” Laure doesn’t quite know if she is supposed to be intrigued or scared. There is a peculiar tone in his voice as if he had expected nothing but locked doors in here.

“D-do you know a way out of here?” Laure is speaking before she even realizes it. She clamps her hand over her mouth but it’s too late. He figure’s eyes narrow curiously.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to trust strangers? Especially the ones you meet in the dark?” Philippe and Laure shrink back when he leans closer to them. Neither of them dares to answer. The figure leans back and stares at them in silence for a little longer. Laure wonders how his eyes can be so bright. Like cats’ eyes they reflect even the least bits of light.

“Very well then,” he says suddenly. “I can show you a way out. Follow me...” With that he heads down the corridor and Philippe and Laure have to scramble along to keep up with him. Occasionally he stops to look back and make sure they are still following him. He uses no light to find his way.

Throughout the way Philippe and Laure hold a tight grasp on each other’s hand. Neither of them dares to ask where he is leading them.

When they finally pass through a hidden door they don’t notice that they left the corridors at first. Only a change in the air reveals that they suddenly find themselves in a space that is much bigger than the narrow passageways. The figure turns on them and watches them carefully for a long moment. He is no less just a dense shadow here than he has been in the corridors. Finally Philippe sums up enough courage to speak.

“Ex-excuse me sir, but how will we get back to Music Hall now?”

“Ah, but I never said I would bring you to Music Hall, did I now?” Laure feels her heart sink into her stomach. Phillipe’s grip tightens around her hand.

“No need to look so frightened,” the figure says. His voice is smooth and inexplicably the children feel drawn in. “I have something much better to show you.”

When they follow the figure deeper into this new place it grows brighter around them and suddenly they can make out many figures and other curious mechanisms scattered throughout the whole room. Laure gasps when one of the figures starts to move in a life-like manner. Colorful candles flicker around them, their flames just as rich and various in shade and hue as the candles themselves. The children gape in awe.

“How does it work?” Philippe blurts out. The figure turns on them and in the dim light Laure can now make out a mouth just below the rim of the mask. I twitches into a wry little smile.

“Magic,” he says and reveals his teeth in an attempted grin at the children’s astounded gazes. “Though I feel magic is helped a great deal when one has a fundamental knowledge of chemistry.” He heads off again, his cloak, which Laure notices he is wearing, billowing slightly behind him. He leads them through many more hallways and rooms full of fascinating objects and automatons, lighted by his colorful candles. In the distance Laure can hear the tingling of a music box. They walk into mythical creatures and exotic dancers, intricate machines and puppets so life-like Laure has to check twice before she still isn’t sure they aren’t real. What _is_ this place?

Finally they find themselves in a simple room with a single grand piano standing in the center. The floor is littered with sheets of paper, some blank, others full of staves covered in notes. The only table in the room is barely visible under the stacks of books and pages that pile high on it.

Philippe and Laure need a moment to adjust to the normalcy and the light of this room after all they had just seen in the semidarkness. When the after images finally disappear from Laure’s field of view she takes a closer look at the figure that has now clearly turned into a tall, thin man in a neat black suit. His black hair is combed back and his face is hidden behind a white mask that covers everything but his mouth and chin. He moves fluidly and with feline grace as he takes of his cloak and hangs it neatly onto a hook by the door. He arches his back and cracks the knuckles of his long white fingers before he turns his attention to the children and eyes them with an alluring smile.

“How do you feel about music?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you might have noticed I go with the full-mask version of Erik. More Leroux. I also prefer it this way. Because in my head his entire face is practically a veiny skull with a bit of skin. (Check out muirin007 on deviantart for one of the best Erik depictions *ever*.)  
> 


	7. VII

Laure is enraptured. A curtain of sorts, a finest construction of rhythm and melody, has draped itself around them, and the world within, and the world beyond are nothing but music, music, music. Waves of tone and sound wash through them, vibrate through to their cores and guides them as they transcend to realms of song they hadn't known to exist before.

Laure gasps when involuntarily she lifts her voice to sing, driven by the powerful surge that is the music around her. Philippe joins her and soon they are two birds encircling each other in careless play, their voices soaring along in their flight. Beneath them is the rich world that the masked man creates on his piano, a carpet of unequalled intricate design that both carries and coaxes the children's voices beyond anything they had experienced so far.

Their minds are in a whirl of song and fog and Laure wonders when they had exchanged their places in the simple room with the piano for _this_. A scene of sounds that none of the words she knows could do justice.

There is nothing but Philippe and her and the man with the mask, who has allowed his own voice to join – or had he been singing all along? Laure doesn't dwell much longer on this question but instead looks in wonder at the images the music creates in her mind. Instinctively she knows how to change her voice to match them. Beside her Philippe does the same.

They aren't aware of the man's gaze resting on them. Scrutinizing. Hungry.

"Stop right this instant!"

The images shatter. They break down with a spectacular, sparkling crash and for a moment everything is black before Philippe and Laure find themselves back in the room with the piano, with the man in the mask... and an extraordinarily enraged woman.

Clad in black, she is of medium height, though her proud and upright posture make her seem taller. As does the air of authority – and in this moment that of unbridled anger – with which she carries herself. Everything about her emanates strict, collected control. From the hair that is pulled back tightly and wrapped in a plaited crown around her head to the pursed lips and even her angry stare, tough it shines with untamed lights of fury.

"How dare you?" she spits in an accusatory tone, the anger tightening her voice and lending it a barely audible tremor. "What on earth were you thinking, taking the children like this?" The man in the mask seems unimpressed.

"Keep your fur on, Giry. I was simply showing them around. No harm in that." His voice is pleasant, though it is underlined by a low growl. The woman named Giry pierces him with a gaze that would have sent any other man to their knees begging for mercy.

"I told you to stay away from them," she hisses while striding towards him, keeping her voice low so that the children wouldn't hear.

"Ah, but where is the fun in that? Besides, who are you to tell what I should or should not do?" the masked man replies, keeping his voice equally low. His manner is conversational, equal to a banter between friends, but the tone of his voice carries a barely concealed threat of unknown properties. If possible Madame Giry's gaze grows even colder.

"I will take them with me now and you will keep your hands off them, do you understand?" her voice is icily calm, though her anger still bubbles beneath the surface. The man in the mask regards her with a dangerous glare.

"I believe it is not your role to be making the threats, Giry." Madame Giry doesn't flinch, for which she is to be given great credit, but a flicker of uncertainty crosses her eyes. The man she faces is dangerous, she knows, and when he has set his mind to something there was little to be done to stop him. Just as quickly as it has come though, the flicker disappears again and when she replies her voice is steady.

"I will bring the children back to their mother and you will stay away from them or so help me." They hold their gazes for a moment, onyx burning into glowering embers. Finally the man inclines his head in the slightest fashion.

"Fine," he says. "But one word of me to _her_ , to anyone, and there will truly be no help for you." Madame Giry holds his gaze for a moment longer before she whisks around and grabs the two children by their shoulders, yanking them out of the hazy state they had still been in until now.

"Come, it is time you were brought back to your mother."

 

* * *

 

"Christine, please, stay calm."

"How can I stay calm when my children are missing?!" Christine abruptly stops in her frantic pacing and whirls around to fix her husband with a penetrating glare. The anxiousness that she feels deep within the pit of her stomach flickers in her eyes, as does the aggravation at Raoul's proposal.

Raoul steps towards Christine and holds her upper arms tight. He lets his gaze rest on hers, willing her to calm for just a moment. It doesn't escape him that her hands continue their restless fidgeting and twisting of her skirt.

"Everyone is out looking for them. It is only a matter of time before they return." Christine meets his gaze with a tormented look and tears away from him to continue her pacing. Her movements are jerky and she twists her fingers so tightly into each other that Raoul fears she might break them.

They had searched the entirety of Music Hall for the whole afternoon and not a glimpse of the children. Christine herself had searched every nook and cranny to no avail. She had even suggested going back to the hotel but Raoul had argued that it was highly unlikely for the children to have left the building. Instead he proposed to wait on stage, a place, he had said, the children would certainly return to eventually.

'Eventually' leaves them waiting for an unbearably long time.

Christine's gaze snaps up when Meg walks onto stage. She had briefly come by to hand her the tickets for her performance that night and joined in the search when she had heard the children were missing. Upon seeing her friend's anxious begging gaze she shakes her head in resignation.

"We haven't found them so far," she says and pulls her mouth into a tight line. A shaky breath escapes Christine's lips and she pulls a hand through her hair that has already considerably loosened from its updo. Meg takes Christine's hand and squeezes it tightly, offering her a small smile, meaning to be reassuring.

After a moment she speaks up again, a small flicker of regret in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, but..." Christine breaks her off with a weak smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"You have to leave, I know. The performance. I don't know if I'll be able to make it..." she gestures helplessly at the situation. Meg nods in silence.

"Don't worry. I just hope you find them."

"Thank you," Christine sighs. "Break a leg." Meg smiles and squeezes Christine's hand again before heading offstage. Christine watches her for a moment before she returns to her restless pacing and fidgeting.

Eventually Raoul has enough. Christine only spares him a brief glance when he leaves the stage with a sigh. She doesn't even notice him returning moments later with a chair in his hands.

" _Please_ ," he says and steers his wife towards the chair, "have a seat." His voice and actions are a little rougher than he intended them to be. Christine's nerves aren't the only ones on edge.

Though she utters a sound of protest she complies when he pushes her onto the chair.

"Thank you," Raoul sighs and lets his head hang for a moment before he lifts his gaze to meet Christine's. "You were driving me quite mad," he admits and kneels down in front of her. He gently loosens her tense hands from each other and takes them into his own. For a moment they just sit in silence, Raoul pressing her hands against his lips in an effort to keep his nerves at ease as well as her from fidgeting. After a while Christine manages to wriggle one hand from his grip and strokes it through his hair, as much to calm him as herself. She feels a twinge of guilt for having completely disregarded Raoul's fear in her own anxiousness. He is just as worried as her.

She is about to say something, utter words of apology, when a sound suddenly quickens her heartbeat to a strong hammering. Raoul's head shoots up to meet her gaze, his eyes wide, then they both face the open stage door. Two unruly heads of hair, one brown, one blond, poke around the frame. When Laure meets her mother's eyes she breaks into a wide grin.

"Maman! Papa!" she exclaims and runs towards them.

"Laure!" Christine jumps up from the chair and hurriedly embraces her daughter. A moment later Philippe is by her side too. "Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick." Christine is almost teary in her relief as she presses her face into the children's hair, holding them tightly against her. She feels Raoul standing behind her, squeezing her shoulders lightly, conveying his relief.

"We were exploring but then we got lost and a man found us and showed us this colorful world and he played music and then this women found us too and brought us back." Laure says in an uninterrupted stream of words. Christine understands only the last part.

"Women? Who found you?" Philippe loosens himself a little from his mother's embrace and gestures towards Madame Giry, who had stood a little off to allow the family their small reunion. Now that the attention has diverted to her she steps forward with a small but warm smile playing around her lips and eyes. Christine looks up and gasps in surprise.

"Agathe!" Christine rises to her feet and while Philippe and Laure throw themselves at their father she walks towards the woman who had been like a mother to her so many years ago.

"Christine." Madame Giry's smile grows when she embraces Christine.

"Thank you for finding them. Where did they...how did you know? How have you been? Meg said..." Christine breaks off, at a loss for words, suddenly quite overwhelmed with the situation.

"They were sneaking about somewhere in the depths of Music Hall. I overheard the commotion when I happened to stop by as Meg told me she would pay you a short visit." She smiles again, admiring how Christine has changed, pushing aside the guilt of not quite telling the truth, as any mother would do. "It's good to see you."

"Thank you so much. You can't believe how worried I was."

"Oh, I can," Mme. Giry says with a small twinkle in her eye. Christine smiles at her and pulls her into another quick hug. She would take time to catch up with her later. For now she needs to deal with Philippe and Laure. Her initial relief is wearing off and she has a mind to speak to them about just running off like that.

The children seem to sense what is about to come as they shuffle their feet self-consciously and carefully avoid their mother's gaze.

"Well?" Christine says, eyeing her children with a level gaze. They look to the side and Philippe mumbles something that might be understood as 'sorry' by someone with very sharp hearing.

"What were you thinking?" Christine's voice is neither sharp nor angry though that somehow only makes it worse for Philippe and Laure.

"We're sorry Maman," Philippe tries again. Laure nods quickly.

"We won't do it again." Christine knows it is the sort of promise they intend to keep until it slips their minds at the next most convenient occasion, nevertheless she doesn't have the mind or the energy to rebuke them any longer. The relief to know them back safely mollifies her enough to just leave them with a few more words of warning, much to their relief.

"Let us return to the hotel now. We've all had a long day." Christine smiles at Raoul's proposal. As the anxiousness leaves her body she feels it replaced by exhaustion and looks forward to a calm, restful night. They bid Mme. Giry farewell and call for a carriage to take them back to the hotel.

"So, where were you that none of us could find you?" Raoul asks when the carriage rattles down the streets. Philippe and Laure exchange a quick look before Laure decides to simply tell everything, even when Philippe looks a little uneasy at that prospect.

"We went out on an adventure to find the magician. He was keeping a secret and we had to figure out what it was. Then we found a hidden door and we crawled through it and suddenly we were inside the walls and could go everywhere we wanted. We could even see you on stage!"

"Secret passageways?" Raoul asks, slightly amused. To his surprise Philippe nods, having come to the conclusion that he might as well help Laure in her story telling now that she is prepared to spill all the beans.

"Yes, there was a whole system of corridors and secret doors. Music Hall is full of it. You can go wherever you want and no one can see you." A smile grows on his face. Raoul notices Christine shift uneasily in her seat. It sounds all too familiar. Laure pipes in before either of them can dwell on the thought much longer.

"But then we got lost. It was so dark and everything looked the same and we couldn't find our way back out anymore." She shudders theatrically. "It was pretty scary."

"Did Madame Giry find you then?" Christine asks.

"No, the magician did," Laure answers with a smile. Christine and Raoul exchange a puzzled look.

"The magician?"

"Yes! He took us with him and showed us these rooms full of magic and colorful candles and creatures I have never seen before. It was like a fairy tale." Raoul shoots a look at Philippe only to find him nodding at his sister's words.

"And what did he do, this... magician?" he asks.

"We played music," Philippe says and a curious smile crosses his face.

"It was magical," Laure adds in with the same enchanted look about her.

"So he wasn't a magician but just a talented musician?" Raoul asks. "I wonder why we haven't seen him in the orchestra..."

"No, he was a magician!" Laure insists. "I never heard music like that before. It's true, tell them Philippe."

"She's right. It was like nothing you ever taught us." Laure nods approvingly.

"See? His music was magic. And I also know he is a magician because he was wearing a big black cloak – and a mask."

Christine, who had silently listened to her children's descriptions with growing unease, suddenly tightens an unnaturally strong grasp around Raoul's leg beside her. Raoul jerks just noticeably, though not from the iron grip above his knee.

"What did you say he was wearing?" Christine forces her voice to be calm and desperately hopes she had misunderstood.

"A big, big black cloak," Laure says, unaware of the sudden tension in her parents. "And a white mask. It covered his entire face except for his mouth and his eyes – ooh!" she exclaims, remembering something. "His eyes were so creepy. They were yellow and they glowed in the dark. Like cat eyes." Philippe and Laure look at their parents, awaiting reactions of astonishment. Instead both Raoul and Christine have suddenly gone very still. His jaw is set in a rigid lock while all color has drained from her face, leaving her ghastly pale. She fights hard to suppress the tremor that threatens to take over her body.

"Maman?" Philippe frowns at their mother in concern while Laure cocks her head at their father. Has she said something wrong?

"Is everything alright?"

"What?" Raoul is the first to shake himself out of his rigor. "Yes, yes, but I want nothing more of this magician nonsense, do you understand?" Laure opens her mouth to protest.

"It isn't non –" Philippe is about to shush her but their father interrupts them before anyone gets the chance to say anything more.

" _Do you understand?_ " Raoul fixes his children with a warning glare and they both shrink back into their seats and nod timidly. Raoul sighs. He doesn't want to scare them this way. Right now, however, there is no time to worry about it. Beside him Christine is sitting dangerously still, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the walls of the carriage.

"Christine?" Raoul gently pries her fingers from his leg and squeezes her hand. "Christine." Her gaze returns back to reality but she doesn't say a word. She just looks at Raoul and in that short moment fear is written plain across her features. It is gone as soon as she faces their children again. She stays silent for the rest of the ride. In fact she doesn't speak until the children have been well tucked away and the bedroom door closes behind them.

"It can't be him." Her voice is quiet and Raoul barely hears her.

"What, dear?"

"It can't – it can't be." She looks at him intently and the fear and the confusion are back. "How?" Raoul shakes his head. He doesn't know.

"Maybe the children have just let her imagination run wild." It is a weak explanation but Christine clings to it like a drowning person to the last bit of straw. She nods uncertainly. That has to be it. He is _dead_. She saw the picture of his corpse in the papers. She saw the picture in the paper.

She undresses herself. It is difficult to work the tiny buttons with her trembling hands. Finally Raoul pushes them gently away and opens the buttons for her. A short while later she ties the ribbon of her dressing gown around her waist after having changed into her nightgown. Then she lets her arms drop and stands in the middle of the room. Unmoving.

"Christine?" Raoul walks towards her in his robe and nightwear. Without a word he takes her into his arms and presses his face against her neck. When she doesn't stop shaking he presses soft kisses onto her skin.

"Don't worry," he mumbles, "there is nothing to be frightened about. I will keep you safe. The children too. Always." Slowly she relaxes and leans into his embrace. She cannot, however, fight the knot of fear that has settled within her. But she tries and manages to dim its nagging. She takes Raoul's face between her hands and engages him in a long kiss. It is soft and of reassurance and when Christine leans back into the embrace she feels a little safer.

Her gaze falls onto a single red rose on her bedside table. She frowns. How had it gotten there? It certainly wasn't there when they entered the room. Or was it...?

"Raoul, did you give me a rose?" Her voice sounds monotonous in a most peculiar way, even to her own ears.

"A rose? No." Raoul looks at her in confusion before he follows her gaze.

"Odd," he murmurs. Christine has already loosened herself from him and slowly approaches the nightstand, a sense of foreboding filling her chest.

Raoul watches her. Suddenly she stumbles back and blanches, a terrified gasp escaping her throat.

"Christine!" Raoul is at her side just in time to catch her. He guides her to the bed and gently seats her.

"Christine, what happened?" He holds her by her shoulders and searches her gaze intently. It reflects back only wide-eyed fear.

"Christine," he speaks with greater intensity. The longer she stares blankly back at him the stronger the sense of dread in his chest becomes. He sees himself about to shake her when she slowly raises a trembling arm and points at the rose on the nightstand. Raoul turns his head to look at it and then he sees what he had previously missed.

A small white card is tied to the stem with a black silk ribbon. On the card three words stand blazingly clear, written in a jagged hand and blood-red ink. Raoul feels a sudden tightness in his throat when he reads them:

" _Bienvenue, mon Ange._ "


	8. VIII

Christine jumps in her seat when a knock sounds at her dressing room door. Raoul lays a soothing hand on her shoulder and goes to see who’s there. His wife has been particularly jumpy all morning and he can’t blame her for it. She had found it hard to fall asleep last night after they had discovered the ominous message on her nightstand.

“It’s all just a joke, a simple trick,” she had said, her voice tense. It didn’t convince either of them.

But how could it be possible? The opera ghost had died.

“Ah, Agathe, it’s good to see you,” Raoul says and lets the retired ballet mistress in.

“Agathe, thank you for coming.” Christine stands up to give the older woman a hug. “I’m thankful that you volunteered to watch the children.” Behind her Christine can hear a soft groan of protest. Mme. Giry hears it too and chuckles silently.

“I’m glad I can help,” she says and smiles warmly at Christine. Though she has vowed not to tell anyone about Erik she will do anything in her power to keep the children far away from him. Offering to watch them had seemed to be the best option.

“Thank you,” Christine says again. Then she turns to her children. “Go on then, stay with Mme. Giry. And behave.” She shoos them out of the dressing room with a fond smile that tries to hide the worry that eats away at her. When the door closes again she sits herself down at her dressing table and lets her head fall into her hands.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be safe.” Raoul approaches her from behind and begins to gently rub his hands along her shoulders. Christine raises her head and looks at him through the mirror, a sigh leaving her lips as she tries to relax a little.

“I know,” she says “I just – I can’t help but worry about them. What if this isn’t just some joke? What if – what if he’s really...?” The look she casts him is somewhat helpless and Raoul wishes so badly to take the worries from her. But how? All he can do at the moment is give her a smile and squeeze her shoulders a little tighter before pressing a light kiss to the top of her head.

“Agathe will take good care of them,” he murmurs in the hopes of granting her mind at least a little ease. Then he straightens back up and casts a look at the clock by the wall.

“They’ll be waiting for you,” he observes. “Should I tell them you still need a moment?” She smiles at him then, a sweet, warm smile.

“Thank you.” Raoul smiles back, nods curtly and heads out of the room, leaving her behind on her own.

She looks at herself in the mirror, touches up some of her makeup and takes a sip of the tea that has gone long cold.

“Don’t be so silly,” she mutters at herself. There is nothing to worry about. She has Agathe, she has Raoul. And she isn’t that naïve young chorus girl anymore. There is no Angel of Music, there is no mysterious, psychotic opera dweller. He is dead. And she wouldn’t let him come to haunt her now.

She rubs a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again she can barely stop herself from shrieking in surprise. She clamps a hand over her mouth and chides herself for her foolishness. Slowly she lowers her hand and places it over her wildly beating heart. In front of her, where moments before there had been nothing at all, a red rose bears a stark contrast against the wooden table top. Under it a folded letter glares at her ominously.

Same fine paper, same blood red ink, same edgy handwriting.

_“The best of luck for today’s rehearsal.”_

She feels a tightness in her chest constricting her breath. With a trembling hand she reaches for the letter, hesitant as if she is afraid to burn herself. How could this be? She runs her fingers over the red ink. Then suddenly, as if she has been bitten, she drops the letter and jumps up from her seat, taking several steps backward. Her heart is racing wildly as she stares at the blood red writing. She could have sworn she heard him read it to her. Just the softest murmur at the back of her head, but his voice nonetheless. Nothing that her mind could have come up with on its own.

Anxiously her gaze flits across the room, hoping to see something, anything that would explain, yet knowing that there was nothing there.

A sudden knock at the door startles her. A strange high-pitched sound escapes her throat as she whirls around, heart pounding, nerves on edge.

“Christine, are you alright?” It is just Raoul, his voice warm and concerned through the wood. She forces herself to breath calmly as her husband slowly lets himself into the room. One look at her ashen face and he is by her side, taking hold of her arms and searching her frightened expression with honest, open eyes.

“What happened, love?”

“I – there was – there – another...” she stammers, unable to get her words in the right order above the whirlwind of thoughts that press against the inside of her skull. She glances over at her dressing table and suddenly feels as if she fell into an ice cold river. It had once happened to her as a child in Sweden. Her Papa had just been able to save her. Pneumonia had almost taken her from him then. She feels no different now. Her breath failing to raise her chest as a coldness holds her body in a tight-lock rigor. The sensation of falling making her head and insides spin. The letter, the rose, they are gone.

She grasps Raoul’s shirt for support as her knees threaten to give away. Raoul tightens his grip on her and presses her against his chest.

“Christine,” he murmurs insistently.

“There was another letter Raoul,” she whispers, her voice trembling, “believe me. Another rose and another letter. Right there on the table.” Raoul turns his head to look but of course he sees nothing. He opens his mouth, wanting to reason with his wife, put it off as a trick of mind perhaps, but he his cut short as a terrible thought crosses Christine’s mind.

“Raoul, the children! You have to find the children!”

“But they are safe with Ma –”

“Please, you have to bring them back. Now.” She grasps at the front of his shirt, her eyes are wide, frightened and bidding. He has seen this exact look before. Years ago above the roofs of Paris and in this moment he believes every word she says. His heart gives a painful jolt and he nods with a tightly set jaw.

“Of course.” They leave the room together. Raoul accompanies her to the stage and presses a tight kiss to her forehead before he heads off in his search for their children. Christine watches him leave, her heart jabbing painfully against her ribcage. Please, she thinks, please don’t let him be too late.

 

* * *

 

“Philippe! Laure!” Madame Giry rushes through the corridors, black dress swishing around her ankles. Stage hands jump to the side as she blazes her trail through the narrow backstage corridors. Nobody wants to be in the way of a lady with a look as grim as hers.

Where had they gone? Only moments ago she was watching them, her careful eye trained on their every movement, when suddenly a clumsy stage hand had run into her. She had scolded him for his inattentiveness and sent him scurrying off, muttering apologies. When she turned back to the children... they were gone.

“Philippe!” she barks, uneasy feelings lend a sharp edge to her voice. “Laure!” How can they have disappeared so quickly? And where to? She has a suspicion, of course she does, but until she has discarded every other possibility she will not allow herself to give in to unwarranted fears. She strides around a corner –

– and almost runs the Comte over.

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” she mutters and straightens herself, brushing the front of her skirt a little.

“Agathe! Good that I run into you,” he says. The look he carries in his eyes is tinged with a hectic urgency. “Christine wants me to bring the children to her straight away.” There is urgency in his voice and in the way he brushes back his hair with his hand. He licks his lips and looks at her expectantly. An unwell feeling spreads through Mme. Giry’s insides.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” she answers. Raoul frowns at her in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I do not know where the children are. It appears that I have lost them.” She clenches her jaw at this admittance of failure. She meets the Comte’s incredulous stare with a level gaze.

“How can you have lost them? I thought you were supposed to –”

“I am fully aware of what I was supposed to do, Monsieur, and yet it changes nothing about the current situation,” she cuts him off. “If you wish you may accompany me in my search. Otherwise I would bid you to not waste my time any longer. I have your children to find.” Raoul takes a deep breath to calm himself. The children are no longer here. Fantastic. But Mme. Giry is right. There is no use in standing around and blaming her. He knows for himself how hard it can be to keep track of Philippe and Laure sometimes.

“Very well then, let’s find them.” Mme. Giry nods and strides of in the direction she was headed, leaving him to follow her hastily. _Please_ , he thinks, _let us find them quickly_. The image of Christine’s fear-stricken face burns behind his eye lids. If what she said was true, if there had really been a second letter, if that letter had really been from him... But how could it? He is dead. Raoul doesn’t want to think about it. He tries to dislodge the thought from his head and follows Mme. Giry into the depths of Music Hall.

 

* * *

 

“Well done everyone, that is it for today.” A low, jovial murmur spreads through Main Hall, softly underlined by the sounds of instruments being put aside and packed away as the musicians prepare to leave. They have done a fantastic job and Christine can see that Mr. Seidl is very pleased. Even she somehow managed to pull herself together despite the nagging fear that ate away at her. She had concentrated on pouring all her thoughts into the music, but now that she was no longer singing, her worries returned.

Her searching gaze travels through Main Hall but she can spot neither Raoul nor their children. Where are they? Does that mean he hasn’t found them yet?

“Madame de Chagny, if I could have a word?” Mr. Seidl approaches her with the score in hand. “You did absolutely splendid, I must repeat again that it is a pleasure to work with you.” Christine smiles at him.

“Thank you kindly. The pleasure is all mine,” she answers. Mr. Seidl nods politely.

“As I have mentioned before I am most fond of your rendition of...” he begins to suggest a few changes, just small tweaks, nothing that she wouldn’t have changed on her own if she were fully concentrated and he knows. He is, however, polite enough to wrap his call for full attention up in his suggestions and Christine nods politely and tries her best to listen.

“Thank you, I will keep it in mind,” she says when he closes the score with a soft snap. He grants her another small nod before presumably retreating into his private office. Christine sighs and rubs her temples. Where could Raoul and the children be?

She makes her way to her dressing room in the faint hope that maybe her family is there waiting for her. Despite herself her heart sinks uncomfortably when she opens the door and faces only the empty room. Instinct tells her to turn heel and search for them on her own, but reason pulls her towards the ottoman where she slumps down and closes her eyes. She is suddenly very tired and wishes she were back in the hotel room and in the knowledge that her children are safe. The worry drains her.

_“Such low spirits, Madame? But why? You needn’t fret. I would never dare harm your precious offspring.”_

Christine’s eyes fly open and she jolts upright in her seat.

“What was that?” A voice, she is certain she just heard a voice. And not just any voice at that. A cold shiver runs down her spine. It had been around her. Somewhere. She was... she was certain of that, wasn’t she?

Her eyes flit around the room, but of course she finds nothing. Nothing that would prove she hasn’t just imagined what she thought she heard. She waits, listening intently to the silence, and hears nothing. No sound but the continuous hum of a busy Music Hall, no voices but those of the people passing by her dressing room.

A sense of dread tightens her throat and she suddenly wishes she could just wake up in her bed in Paris.

The Phantom... Erik, he is dead. She had seen the picture of his corpse in the papers. She had seen it and cried. She remembers this clearly. However... if he is dead, how could she be hearing his voice? How could she be receiving his notes?

She lets her head fall into her hands. Raoul has seen the note too. He has seen the first note too. She is certain of that. She hasn’t just imagined it...

She tenses when a low laugh seeps into the room. Just the slightest hum. So soft she can barely tell if it is actually there, if she isn’t just hearing things that aren’t real. It makes her hair stand on end. She looks up, but the room hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed. The silence is still there... barely there, because she is certain she can hear that low hum.

“Stop it, please,” she hears herself whisper. She lifts her hands to cover her ears, pressing them tightly shut so that not a sound from outside can penetrate them. And yet the hum is still there. Menacing and hypnotic. The most dreadfully beautiful sound. It vibrates inside her head and presses against her skull. It won’t stop.

“No, please, get out,” she whispers. “Get out, get _out!_ ” Did she shout the last word? She isn’t sure. There is no certainty except that of the hum in her head. And she feels the tighter she presses her hands over her ears the louder it gets. And yet it never changes in volume.

She squeezes her eyes shut and bends over, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Get out, get out,” she mutters under her breath. “Please, please get out.”

“Christine?” Suddenly Raoul is kneeling in front of her and pries her hands away from her ears. “Christine, what’s wrong?” Worry swims in the deep blue of his eyes. She doesn’t answer. Cannot answer when this humming is still buzzing in her mind.

“Christine?” But is it really in her mind? If it isn’t, Raoul must hear it too.

“Raoul, can you hear the humming?" Her voice is breathless, urgent. "Please tell me if you can hear the humming.” She grabs his upper arms and looks at him with pleading eyes. Raoul returns her gaze in bewilderment.

“What do you mean? I – I don’t – what are you talking about?” Alarm rises in his chest when her eyes glisten with tears and she presses her face against his shoulder.

“Maman?” All of a sudden the humming stops.

Christine looks up and meets Philippe’s eyes under his slightly creased brows.

“Philippe!” she gasps. Relief floods her chest and she finds it suddenly hard to breathe, but for entirely different reasons. “Oh Philippe, were have you been?” She opens her arms and pulls her son in for a hug.

“Where’s Laure?” she asks, a twinge of panic rekindling in her heart.

“I’m here, Maman,” her daughter pipes and comes towards her with a bright smile on her face. Christine emits a wordless gasp and pulls her in too. The tears that have collected in her eyes threaten to spill over when Laure nuzzles her head into the crook of Christine’s neck.

“Where have you been?” she manages to press out with a thick voice.

“Exploring,” Laure answers cheerfully.

“We wanted to stay with Madame Giry, we really did,” Philippe cuts in to explain before Christine could ask, “but suddenly we found ourselves somewhere entirely different and we don’t know how we got there.” He pushes slightly back from Christine to look at her. “I swear.”

“We were in the secret passages of Music Hall, but this time everything was different,” Laure explains, a dreamy expression on her face. “There were lights and colors and aumota- automa- automatons! And music. Everything played music!” As the children think back their expressions cloud and a look that Christine could only describe as hypnotized, enters their eyes. She casts Raoul an uneasy glance.

“Did – did you meet anyone?” she asks carefully. The children shake their heads.

“No, the magician wasn’t there. But I think we heard him sometimes.” Laure’s voice is still dreamy and a wistful smile sits on her lips. A quick glance at Philippe and Christine sees that he looks no different.

“Phillipe, Laure?” She shakes her children slightly and they snap back, though a distant glimmer remains in their eyes.

“It was amazing,” Philippe says.

Christine feels the uneasiness in her grow.

“Perhaps we should return to the hotel?” Raoul suggests. Christine nods quickly.

“Yes, I just want to have a word with Agathe.”

“She isn’t here. As soon as we found the children she left, saying that she had something urgent to attend to. But I’m certain you can speak with her tomorrow.” Christine frowns ever so slightly. She trusts Agathe with her life, yet she cannot silence the voice whispering that the former ballet mistress is again more knowledgeable than she appears to be. Christine has to talk to her about Erik. She needs to know that she isn’t just imagining things and reading too much into, what could be, a freakish assemblage of coincidences.

“Fine, I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back! I have risen from the dead!
> 
> In all seriosness though: I am sorry for being gone for so long. I kinda got caught up in a one shot that turned into a 30k fanfic that is just getting started. It's also Phantom and I plan on uploading it sometime. BUT FIRST I want to actually finish this story. It won't be going on for that long anymore (maybe like 5 more chapters?). Also I'm not sure if I actually want to upload the other fanfic. It's fun to write and all (fun in the sense that I enjoy tearing out my heart and jumping around on it) but I'm not certain about the direction it is headed yet.  
> If anyone is interested, I already published the one shot on here. It's my only other work on this site and I would greatly appreciate it you have a look and tell me what you think. (Shamless self-promotion, I know.) I'm actually quite proud of how it is written and how it turned out, so...
> 
> Anyway, I promised myself not to touch that other fic until I finished this one, so hopefully I will be able to update more regulrly again. :)


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